


True North

by IanMuyrray



Series: True North [1]
Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Boss/Employee Relationship, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Outlander Rarepairs, Outlander Rarepairs Challenge, Slow Burn, driving down dirt roads, falling in love at an apple orchard, finding yourself, making out in the bed of a pick up truck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-05-02 18:14:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 59,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14550468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IanMuyrray/pseuds/IanMuyrray
Summary: All Jenny wanted in life was to leave the small town of Broch Mordha behind and move to Paris, where she planned to make a living as a writer. But then– her father died.Unwillingly, Jenny inherited the Fraser business: a struggling Lallybroch Orchards. Jamie, wanting to help his sister, brought their childhood friend Ian Murray back to Lallybroch after some time away, and Jenny hires Ian as her employee. Jenny sends Jamie off to an internship in the US, reassuring him that between herself and Ian, Lallybroch will be taken care of. Dougal, her uncle, runs Mackenzie Farms - he’s possibly in cahoots with her grandfather Simon Fraser of Lovat Ranch - and Dougal is angling to purchase the orchard land for his own use. He doesn’t think Jenny can succeed. Even as Jenny throws herself into the orchard and dedicates herself to proving Dougal wrong, she longs to get away.While working together, and perhaps surprising nobody, Jenny and Ian kindle a romance. They end up on holiday together, free of the orchard and in Paris, of all places. Jenny and Ian’s time away goes awry when they get some devastating news that may have changed Lallybroch Orchards - and Jenny’s future - forever.





	1. Dust

**Author's Note:**

> Sometime later, Jenny rose, floating toward the door with a glance back that pulled Ian after her like iron to **true north**. - _Outlander_ , Diana Gabaldon 

There was nothing in Brian Fraser’s will regarding _how_ the cider mill should be run; it only said _who_ was in charge. And yet here sat Dougal Mackenzie, giving Jenny Fraser that condescending look older men love to give younger women. He pressed his knuckles into the sales agreement drawn up by the Mackenzie Farms’ lawyer, which he had strewn across her desk. Mackenzie Farms wanted to buy Lallybroch Orchards, and Dougal had been sent to repartee.

 

“Ye canna be serious, lass. Ye canna manage this place on your own.”

       

She jutted out her chin in defiance. “I _am_ serious.”

       

His eyes narrowed.

 

They were in Brian Fraser’s office, a room Jenny was slow to move into, even though it now belonged to her. Many items remained where Brian had left them: a plant in a clay pot on the window sill, a book on apple seeds left open on the coffee table, ash and woodchips in the fireplace from his last fire. Jenny wanted to disturb little in this space and could hardly bring herself to even dust it— the only real change was the presence of her cat, Adso. Attached to Jenny like a shadow, the cat lay comfortably across the back of her chair.

 

Positioned on either side of a cherry desk, Jenny was seated in the executive’s seat while Dougal was in the chair meant for guests and staff members.               

 

“Ye dinna ken anything about the business.”

       

“I was born and raised here. I may know a thing or two more than ye think.” She leaned over the desk, her black waves swinging over her shoulder. Her fingertips turned white against dark wood as she rolled her chair closer to the desk’s edge.

 

He shook his head. “Ye’ve been away at university, ye havena been here for many years.”

 

She sat up straight. “I have come home every summer. _Home_ , uncle. And I have lived and worked here full time for the past year.”

 

“But yer head hasna been in management and ye’ve no’ been trained. Under your care, Lallybroch will go under. No, Janet. Ye dinna ken how it’s done.” He pulled at his beard. “Lallybroch is bankrupt. Selling is yer best option. Keep the land in the family and make some money for yerself and Jamie.”

 

“Selling is no’ an option. And I’ve seen the books. We’re no’ bankrupt yet.”

 

“Yet,” Dougal snapped. He seemed tall even while seated, and Jenny resisted the urge to shrink away. “Mackenzie Farms will protect Lallybroch.” He pulled a pen out from his breast pocket and clicked it, holding it out to her. “Sell. For the sake of the family. This land has been in your father’s family for generations—it would be a shame if his headstrong daughter were to cause it to be repossessed.”

 

She glowered. “Mackenzies are no’ Frasers.”

 

He shrugged. “Nay, but you’ll no’ likely hear from old Lovat.”

 

If she counted the email from his attorney, she had heard from him. Simon Fraser, her estranged grandfather, ran the neighboring Lovat Ranch. His lawyer had inquired as to the current state of the farm and offered to annex the Lallybroch lands to his estate. Jenny suspected he had plans to demolish the farmhouse and raze the trees to make way for his cows.

 

But apples were the lifeblood of this land, where the trees were nearly sentient in their personalities and unique in their moods. The soil’s purpose was to nurture an apple orchard and cidery.

 

Peak season came in the early autumn when the crop was sweet, ripe, and easy to twist off the branch. Although Lallybroch milled much of their harvest into cider or treats like apple cobbler and donuts, there was always an abundance of fruit on the trees for guests to pick their own, filling paper apple bags until they were fit to burst.

 

Dougal was right about Lallybroch struggling financially, however. The orchard’s profit margins had been meager in previous years, and last year they had been closed to the public due to Brian’s sudden death, resulting in no profit at all. Lallybroch planned to reopen this season.

 

Misinterpreting her face, Dougal continued, “Och, it’s nae so bad. Ye’ll get a nice sum and then ye can move to Paris, just like ye planned.” He pushed the papers towards her.

 

She reached up to give Adso a pat and then pretended to look over the agreement, flicking stray cat hair from her fingers.

 

Living in Paris had been her life’s dream: She spent her university years double majoring in French and literature. She had dreamed of a Parisian apartment with a terrace where she could plant flowers for bumblebee visitors. She desired to read books and write short stories while munching on pastries in little Parisian cafés. She had been looking for work in Parisian libraries and bookstores, longing to surround herself in the written word. She wanted twisting roads and French architecture. She wanted to wrap herself in the colors of purples and blues, whites and yellows—the colors she saw in the French city. When she closed her eyes, she could perfectly count the twinkling lights of Paris’ skyline. She had fallen in love with the city at the age of eight, when her mother had taken her on a girls’ trip. Just the two of them, in the coziest, most gorgeous city in the whole world. Her return to Paris had been such a long time coming that she often hummed French melodies into the steam of her hot coffee in the mornings.

 

But then, last spring, her father had died. Walking out of a final exam, buzzing with the confidence of yet another exceptional grade and on the cusp of graduation, she checked her phone. Twelve missed calls, eight voicemails, and even more text messages.

 

Jamie: _CALL ME ASAP._

 

Their father had collapsed from a stroke at Jamie’s rugby scrimmage. By the time Jenny met Jamie at the hospital, Brian Fraser had been dead for four minutes.

 

They hosted a memorial dinner for their father, without the formalities of a priest or burial. Their father wouldn’t have wanted anything too stiff; it would have distorted the relaxed spirit of the orchard and disturbed his precious trees. Jenny had led a toast in her father’s name, and afterward Jamie had scattered his ashes around Lallybroch’s first apple tree, joining them with their mother’s. It was a large, ancient beast that gripped the land with an extensive network of roots. While it couldn’t grow apples anymore, it held firm to the physical remains of previous Frasers. When its leaves rustled, or when its branches creaked, Jenny knew she was being looked after.

 

She glanced out the window at the family tree now, visible through the second story window, its budding leaves blown upright to a pale green in the highland breeze. Then her eyes snapped to Dougal’s. “My father would never sell.”

 

He was nonplussed. “Maybe so. But ye ken he was more sentimental than sensible for a man with so much responsibility. Lallybroch was being run into the ground even as he ran it.”

 

She leaned back in her seat and gripped the arm rests, folding one leg over another, looking him over coolly. “If ye mean to get on my good side, uncle, insulting my father is not the way to do it.”

 

“Lass, I dinna ken _what_ Fraser was thinkin’ puttin’ you in charge. But ye dinna have the experience or the business acumen to ken a good offer when ye see it.” He held the pen aloft again and slid the papers toward her, large legal documents with yellow _sign here, initial here_ tabs signaling breaks in small print. “Now. If ye will.”

 

“What would Mackenzie’s do with Lallybroch if I signed it over?” Suspicious, she absentmindedly tapped her foot in the air. She could smell money’s desperate promise on him, see it in his pressed suit and close-cut beard.

 

 “That is none of yer concern.” His answer was too quick.

 

“Isn’t it, then?” she insisted. “Lallybroch has been in my father’s family for generations, ye said so yerself.”

 

“For God’s sake, just because ye’ve lived here doesna mean ye can run it. It’s too much responsibility for such a lass.”

 

Her muscles went rigid, and she felt Adso’s tail flick near her ear in sympathetic agitation.

 

Dougal sighed. “Jamie willna be around, ye ken that well enough. He is busy at school and leaves soon to America, besides.”

 

She scoffed. “So _that’s_ it. If ye send me to France and keep Jamie to the States, ye figure ye can do whatever ye see fit to our home. Would ye keep it an orchard, uncle? Or will ye turn around and sell the home of your sister’s children to the first developer to come calling?” Jenny tossed her head in agitation, black waves rolling across her shoulders and back like a thundercloud. “If ye’ll forgive me, I have business I’ve no skill for to attend to. Ye can see yourself out.”

 

“We’re no’ done here, lass.”

 

 “Aye. We are.” She dismissed him from the office with a wave of her hand.

* * *

 

The trees called Jenny off the dirt road. The road carried her nowhere, just down the path—away— but she found her feet wading through grass and weeds, past trees that created a canopy between herself and the sky above. Trees that had been one of her father’s most prized possessions, second only to his children. Apple blossoms peppered her vision as she walked past, bursts of pink and white amidst the sea of green.

 

She walked, instinctively, towards the Fraser family tree, as if it would hold some ancient wisdom that she could draw from, some voice that would tell her what she was supposed to do.

 

But she stopped. Such a voice did not exist. Her parents were gone; she was alone.

 

She reached up and touched one of the apple blossoms, fragile and delicate in her hands. A warm wind picked up strands of her hair, blowing it across her face, and mid-afternoon sun danced from budding leaf to budding leaf. She inhaled the scent of the land: dirt, moss, hay, with a note of natural decay. Her land.

 

She knew every nook and cranny of the place; she knew its character, how it inhaled carbon dioxide and exhaled oxygen, how its old barn creaked and whistled in high winds. A casual glance is all she needed to tell if a Lallybroch apple would be best eaten raw, baked, or pressed into cider.

 

She pushed back through the trees until she reached the dirt path once more, dust still in the air from Dougal’s car speeding down the lane. She stood there in the haze, dust settling on her clothes, on her hair, on her skin, enveloping her, coating her in a thin layer.

 

But she shook it off. She had work to do. Kicking her sneakers down the dirt path, Jenny strode back towards the farmhouse.


	2. Pollen

A sleepless night made reading impossible. Frowning at punctuation, Jenny fidgeted with the hem of her dress and sipped her morning coffee. She read the same sentence over and over, a loop, her mind drifting to yesterday’s confrontation with Dougal.

 

The crunch of car tires on the gravel driveway snapped her out of it. She brushed the window curtain aside and blinked into the morning sun.

 

“Jamie!” Closing her paperback with a clap, she scrambled out of the breakfast nook to the entryway. The old wood screen door creaked as it opened, then sprung back as it closed, bouncing against the frame, refusing to latch itself.

 

He had barely climbed out of the car before she crashed into him, enveloping him into a bear hug. He winced as a hard object jammed into his ribs; Jenny still held her book.

 

Her cheek pressed against the leather jacket on his chest. “What are ye doing here already?” He wasn’t expected home until next weekend.

 

“Weel,” he rocked back on his heels, hesitating.

 

She pulled back to look at him. “What? Ye _are_ going to pass this semester, aye? No repeats?” She was teasing, but her voice rang with concern. Brian’s death had hit him hard.

 

He pushed her off him. “Ye ken well enough I get better grades than even _you_ , Einstein. Nah, I came by to bring ye something. Couldna wait.”

 

Jenny heard a car door slam and spun around. What----

 

“Ian!”

 

Ian Murray had been her long-time neighbor and childhood friend. They grew up together, each sharing memories of summer water hose fights, tree climbing, digging for worms, and dusty bike rides; of winter snow angels, down-hill sledding, mugs of hot cocoa, and popcorn with cartoon movies. As Jamie and Ian grew, and began excluding her from their adventures for being a girl, she’d put bugs in their lunch. They had found that, and her temper, hilarious.

 

The last time they had seen each other, he and Jamie had helped load her belongings into the back of Brian’s pick-up. She remembered bouncing around on the balls of her feet, eager to leave the orchard far behind with the promised, if naïve, escape of university. She had bossed her father and the two teen boys around: _careful with that, tie that down more, give it to me, you’re going to drop it!_ Patting her on the back and wishing her luck, Ian gave her a warm hug goodbye. They had since lost touch.

 

Now, he walked toward them, and she wondered if he recalled their friendship, too.

 

“I havena seen ye in…” she trailed off.

 

“Four years or so,” he said, shrugging, and leaned on the hood of Jamie’s car. “Hi, Jenny.”

 

Sunlight dappled across him, breaking through the oak trees surrounding the farmhouse. He dressed casually in jeans and a t-shirt, brown hair curling out from his baseball cap, around his ears and neck. The lanky angles of adolescence were gone, now molded into the firmer form of manhood. He reached up and tipped his cap, a cowboy saluting a lady.

 

Jamie shut his car door, startling her. “Ian just graduated and was looking for a job, so I offered him one here.”

  
“What?”

 

“A job,” Jamie repeated, as if she were dumb. He held up his hands in mock surrender. “I ken you’re _laird_ now, but Lallybroch could use a manager and Ian here is a bona fide farmer.”

 

Offended, Jenny gripped her book tight. “Bona fide farmer?”

 

“Oh aye,” Jamie said, clasping his friend on the shoulder. “Man has a degree in ag-sci. Kens all about soil, tractors, fertilizer, plants, ye name it.”

 

“Does he now.”

 

Jamie glared at her, but Ian chuckled comfortably and shrugged, hands in his pockets. She saw he wore work boots, broken in and caked with dried mud. “Maybe so. And I dinna ken _all_ that, Jamie. Enough, though.”

 

Jamie smiled. “So, what do ye say, Jenny?”

 

They both looked at her expectantly, waiting for her answer. None came.

 

As Jamie opened his mouth to reply to Jenny’s dirty look, Ian shook his head. “We’ll talk about it later. For now, I could go for some coffee.”

 

“Och, she’ll hire you, dinna fash.” Smiling, Jamie put his arm around the two of them and steered towards the unlatched screen door.

 

* * *

  

Something was up. Jamie was pacing back and forth between rooms, needlessly touching things, sighing. Then he would sit and energetically tap his fingers against his knee, only to get up again.

 

Deciding to ignore him, her attention flicked to Ian, who sat across from her in a rocking chair. He stilled as their eyes met, then he lifted his cap and absentmindedly scratched his head. Had he been looking at her?

 

Adso was sitting across Jenny’s lap, purring contentedly with her tail draped over Jenny’s forearm.

 

“He’s cute,” Ian offered, reaching for his mug.

 

“ _She_ is.” Jenny gave Adso a stroke from head to tail, emphasizing the compliment.

 

“She, then,” Ian responded, unbothered by the correction. “When did ye adopt her?”

 

She sighed. “A few years ago. I was lonely. Now she goes with me wherever I go. Addie’s my little shadow.” She scratched pointedly at the base of the cat’s tail, causing it to curl into a happy question mark as her back legs rose with purrs to encourage the touch. Jenny smiled softly at her animal friend, and lovingly smoothed down the mussed fur.

 

“Well,” said Ian, “Lallybroch looks great.”

 

Jenny grinned. She ignored Jamie’s “mmphm” as he paced the room.

 

“Thank you,” she replied, then said, “How come I never heard from ye? Ye never visited or called. It was like ye never existed.”

 

“School keeps ye busy when ye care about it,” Jamie observed mildly from a doorway, interrupting her. “Not that ye’d ken about that.” Jenny and Ian just stared at him, confused by the jab. Jamie huffed. “I’m getting a cup of tea. Ye ken I don’t like coffee.”

 

“Would be nice if ye offered tea to others,” Jenny called after him, peering into her empty mug as she set it aside.

 

“Would be nice if ye had offered tea to me.”

 

Ian ignored him, resuming their conversation. “I’m sorry. It _has_ been a while.”

 

His response wasn’t good enough for Jenny. “Edinburgh is no’ so far away to keep ye from here for four whole years.”

 

She felt stung, agitated, angry with him, but she wasn’t sure why. Truth be told, she hadn’t thought about him that often. She had packaged their friendship into her childhood memories as she transitioned into adulthood. She didn’t understand what she was feeling now that he sat in her living room again, in the same house where they once played hide-and-seek, in the shape of an adult himself.

 

She brushed Adso off her lap, ignoring the cat’s grunt of disapproval. She knew the Murrays no longer lived next door, having moved to England, and that Ian and Jamie went to the same university, making it easy to see each other. She also knew the Highlands could be inconvenient to visit without sufficient reason. But she _had_ considered him her friend. Seeing how easy Ian and Jamie were together, she became concerned Ian did not think of her the same way. She began to mindlessly braid a lock of her hair.

 

Ian’s face was thoughtful, then he changed the subject. “What book were ye reading?”

 

“Sorry?”

 

“Yer book.” He pointed to where it sat on the end table beside her, underneath the stained-glass lamp. It was the one she had been reading when they arrived.

 

“Oh—” she picked it up, heat creeping up her chest and neck, distracted from her irritation. She stared hard at the cover, not daring to show him.

 

“Jenny.” She could hear the smile playing about in his voice. “What book is it?”

 

Unable to meet his eye, she quickly became aware that her two hands were not enough to shield it from his prying gaze. “Dinna fash about it.” She tried to sound disaffected by his interest.

 

Suddenly, he leapt forward. His hand swiped through thin air, though, as she held the book over her head. He laughed as she glared at him, her cheeks flaming.

 

He held his hand out to her expectantly. “Now ye _have_ to let me see.”

 

Jenny narrowed her eyes, then sighed. It’s just Ian, she thought. He might tease her a bit, but she’ll survive. She lowered her arm and handed it to him.

 

His face absurdly serious, he inspected the colorfully illustrated cover where a shirtless, unreasonably muscular man held a scantily-clad woman in his arms. “I thought so. This is a good one.”

 

“Ye havena read it.”

 

“I have.”

 

“ _Ian_. Dinna mock me.”

 

“I’m not! Would ye like me to spoil the ending?” He flipped open to her bookmark. “Ah. This is the part where they’re in France. When they get back to the house---”

 

“Alright, alright!” She leaned forward and seized the book from his hands, giggling despite herself. “That’s enough.” She safely tucked the book between herself and the arm of the couch, covering it with the skirt of her dress.

 

Jenny relaxed into the familiar comfort of his presence as they fell into easy conversation, idly twirling a loose string between her fingers. It felt good, normal, and natural, to have him back.

 

* * *

  

“What do you mean, _dropping out_?” Jenny asked. She leaned around Ian, who was quietly clearing their dinner plates, to glare at her brother.

 

“Lallybroch needs me. I’m home for good.” Jamie’s shoulders were set, his voice even. Only the pink of his ears gave his feeling away. “Especially if ye willna hire Ian. I’ll have to come home.”

 

Jenny slapped her hand on the table. It landed with a dull, dissatisfying thud on the deep green table cloth. “ _You_ were the one that hired Ian. Dinna make it out as if I have a choice!”

 

A clatter of dishware rang out from the kitchen as the dishwasher was opened. The faucet whooshed with the release of water.

 

Tempered, Jenny exhaled. “Ye have only one year of school left, and you’re supposed to go abroad this summer. Ye ken as well as I ye canna miss it. Lallybroch did fine last year without ye, we’ll do so again.”

 

Jamie waved a hand in the general direction of the blooming trees, and flatly stated, “Harvest went to waste last year—”

 

“Waste!”

 

“—and the orchard canna be closed two years in a row. I’ll take a year off and help ye. Ye need this season to be as profitable as it can be, to make up for last year’s debt.”

 

Hardly a ‘waste,’ Jenny thought. With Brian’s death last spring, Lallybroch Orchards closed for the season to allow the family to grieve. No donuts were made and dusted, no cider pressed and milled. But Jenny and her staff had picked the trees clean and processed the crop for fermentation into hard cider. If they were to be closed, they must do _something_ with the apples. And so, she reasoned, Lallybroch should try its hand at expanding their hard cider business with last year’s full crop.

 

“The orchard willna be closed this year. And if we’re so in debt we canna afford ye go to school, how can Lallybroch afford Ian? He’d hardly work for free.” She jerked her chin in the direction of the kitchen, towards the sounds of scrubbing, rinsing, and dishware.

 

“Let me stay on. I’ve already figured out the paperwork to take a leave of absence. I canna focus on school at any rate, wi’ you all alone here.”

 

“I’m _all alone_? Ye canna do your coursework because I am _alone?_ ”

 

“Alone in the house,” he sputtered, nodding. She scoffed as Jamie pressed on. “I can go back to school later. Let me help ye.”

 

“ _No_. Jamie. I can handle Lallybroch. Let me.”

 

She heard the water pressure shift as Ian changed from the faucet to the spray hose, then the dishwasher latched closed and began its cycle.

 

“I’m sorry, but ye canna do this on your own, Janet.”

 

Incensed, she counted her points off on her fingers. “We’re not broke, I’m _not_ alone, and I’ve been groomed to run Lallybroch all my life. Ye _will_ go to school. It’s what Da wants!”

 

A cloud had shifted, and the setting sun broke gold through a window. It cast an impression of the pane on the blue wallpaper.

 

“Da is not here,” he spat. Jamie scowled at her, his hands now in fists. Then he stood, quickly, his chair scraping against the wood floor, nearly toppling it backwards. He turned and left the room without another word.


	3. Sprout

Perched on the porch step, Jenny looked out across the road. It was evening time, the sun growing heavy with the weight of the day, falling into a deep, rich orange that made the orchard glow. She leaned back on her palms and closed her eyes.

 

She couldn’t believe Jamie had decided to drop out of university.

 

Her parents, Brian and Ellen, had had no more than a high school diploma to split between the two of them. Raising her and her brother, and running Lallybroch, had consumed their days.

 

Her parents’ love story had begun with recklessness, she had been told. They fell in love as teenagers, eloped in secret, and were pregnant by the age of twenty.

 

Furious at their carelessness, both the Mackenzies and the Frasers turned them out. Only a single Fraser aunt had taken pity on them, offering to sell Lallybroch to the young couple. Brian had seized the opportunity and withdrew every penny he could to make an offer—including the funds set aside for his university tuition.

 

Then Jenny was born, followed two years later by Jamie. Her parents had simply been so caught up in building a life together that formal education fell by the wayside.

 

Jenny picked a stray pebble off the step and began to trace thin lines, like chalk, into the slab of stone where she sat. She concentrated on creating a shaky mandala design.

 

Lallybroch had been the original Fraser lands. It was where her grandfather had grown up before he split away from the slow pace of apple growing to the vicious pace of cattle slaughter.

 

“My father had already disowned me for marrying yer mam without his permission,” Brian had told her one day, when she was thirteen. She had sat in the passenger seat, hands tucked under her thighs, watching white lines fly past the truck while her father handled the wheel with certainty. “I figured buying the orchard from his sister couldna have done any more damage, even though he wanted it for himself.”

 

Brian’s name on the deed had been the final nail in the coffin for his relationship with Simon Fraser from Lovat Ranch. But it didn’t matter. Brian and Ellen had each other, their children, and their apple trees. The sore muscles, sunburns, and the sleep deprivation their bodies endured to support their family at the orchard added innumerable value to the land, and the vision they had for their children—they didn’t regret one second of their life, but they wanted more opportunities for their children. And so, they nurtured a love of school and learning.

 

Then her mother had died when she was ten. Brian had tried as best he could to make Lallybroch Orchards financially solvent, but Jenny must admit to herself that as much as Brian loved his trees and his children, Ellen was his sunlight and his oxygen. He worked hard, but he grieved. Lallybroch’s earnings took a downward turn as the orchard grieved with him.

 

Jenny knew Jamie’s connection to Lallybroch ran as deep as hers did. Lallybroch was both promise and sacrifice—the promise of parenting, the sacrifice of parenting. She had her education, and she could give up living in Paris. Jamie, at the very least, should finish school.

 

She frowned, continuing to draw a mandala design in the stone. Maybe Jamie was right and she did need help. He had seen what it was like for their father to do it alone, how he poured everything he had into the orchard, but it wasn’t enough.

 

With the added stress from extended family, Jenny knew her every move was under close scrutiny by Dougal, by Lovat. Any failure, any mistake, and they would turn up the pressure for her to sell. She was afraid her best wouldn’t be enough as well.

 

She needed help, and Jamie had given her two options—himself, or Ian.

 

A scratching sound came from the screen door behind her, and Jenny turned to see Adso’s green eyes blinking at her. The cat had lifted a paw, claws extended and catching in the netting.

 

“Hi, button,” Jenny cooed, holding a knuckle against the screen for Adso to sniff. As her pink, whiskered nose twitched, a moving shadow inside the house caught Jenny’s eye.

 

She called out. “Hey.” The shadow stopped, drew closer. Ian. She came inside, meeting him in the hallway, and saw the duffel bag in his hands. “Sorry for what you overheard at dinner. Ye ken ye are always welcome at Lallybroch.” She tucked her thumbs into her back pocket.

 

He nodded, listening intently.

 

“And, turns out, Jamie was right. A helping hand couldna hurt,” she continued, not looking at him. “It would be nice to have support from someone who already kens the place. And ye ken we’re no’ very big, so there’s no’ any career growth here. And I canna pay much—”

 

“Jenny.” He met her eyes and stepped forward, lowering his voice. “I dinna want to be anywhere else. I’d work here even if ye didna pay me. Yer parents raised me more than my own did, and I’ll happily take on Lallybroch to repay my debt to them. Truth be told,” he continued, chuckling, “I was planning to stay no matter what. Ye can still run the place. I’ll do as I’m told, I promise.”

 

She blushed. “Ye dinna have to do that.”

 

“I do, actually.” He straightened and slung his bag over his shoulder, jerking his head in the direction of the stairwell. “Jamie suggested I stay in the guest room. That alright?”

 

She nodded and ran a hand through her hair. “Thanks, Ian. For saying that.”

 

He gave her a meaningful glance then turned to go.

 

“What do ye think,” she muttered, blushing again as he turned back to her, “about this whole mess with Jamie?”

 

He furrowed his brow, taking a moment to think. “Well, I think Jamie will come around. And I think you will, too.”

 

“Oh,” she stammered, “What do ye mean by that?”

 

“I mean,” he paused, “that Jamie willna drop out of school. He hadna said anything to me about it, so I dinna think he’s too serious about it. And I think that you will eventually recognize that Jamie is just trying to do right by ye, and by your parents, and by the orchard. You’re trying to do right, too. I ken that. Is there a way you could do right together? Find some kind of equilibrium between the two of ye?”

 

“Huh. Maybe so.”

 

* * *

 

She found him sitting beneath the Fraser tree, just like she thought she might. His back was against the trunk, his legs stretched out before him, his eyes closed. She approached, her footing careful on the rising ground, the waning light of encroaching dusk barely lighting her way. The reach of the tree branches was wide, preventing all but the most stubborn sunlight through its leaves, even when only budding—only the most determined grass and weeds grew under this tree. He made no move to show he knew she approached.

 

“Jamie.”

 

He stirred, slowly, and finally looked at her, his head heavy as she stood before him. A moment passed before he patted the packed dirt next to him. With a wayward glance, she took the seat offered, sighing as her back came to rest on the trunk. Behind her back, she had clutched the paperwork from Dougal, hidden in a manila folder. She set the folder between them, waiting. They sat in silence for a few moments, looking out on the rows of apple trees.

 

“Out with it, Jenny.” His voice was flat, and he drew his knees up.

 

She let out a long, steady breath. Brushing an inquisitive ant off the folder’s corner, she handed it to him. He looked the documents over, searching for words as the weight of what he read washed over him.

 

“Jamie, I willna let him buy Lallybroch. Him, or Lovat.” She jabbed a finger at the email from Lovat’s lawyer at the back of the pile of papers. “I heard from his lawyer, too.”

 

“All of a sudden, our uncles have an undue interest in the orchard, aye?” He looked at the email from Lovat’s lawyer and slowly nodded at her, understanding. Lallybroch was under Jenny’s protection.

 

She picked at the sparse grass to the side of her leg. “I ken you’re trying to do right. For Lallybroch. And for me.”

 

He cleared his throat. “I am.”

 

“Ye should know,” she said deliberately, “that I am trying to do right, too. For Lallybroch. And for you.”

 

He met her eye. His red hair caught in the setting sun, and Jenny’s throat momentarily clenched with thoughts of their mother. Unconsciously, her hand came to rest against the solid bark of the tree.

 

He swallowed, his fingers stroking a root that breached the packed soil, circling around the wood’s knot, a knuckle in the ground. “I ken that.”

 

“Jenny,” he sighed, “I dinna mean to leave school.”

 

“I know.”

 

“So what do we do about Dougal? And Lovat?”

 

She bit her lip, thinking. “I can ignore them for now. But they’re going to come back, and if they see anything going wrong, they’re going to make this difficult. Dougal’s smart. Even if nothing is wrong, he’s going to try to cause problems. I’m worried.”

 

Jamie ran a hand through his hair. “I’m worried too.”

 

A moment passed, the tree’s roots around her fading as night filled the sky. “I hired Ian.”

 

Jamie nodded knowingly. “Did ye?”

 

“He didna seem very surprised.”

 

He gave her a wry smile. “Neither am I, Janet.”


	4. Blossom

Jenny stirred, waking uncomfortably to sunlight and the sound of birdsong. The chirps of birds scraped against her ear drums and rang thin in her skull, and she flinched from the sun’s glare, bright red against her closed eyelids. Her mouth was dry, her tongue a cotton ball, and her head pounded. Ach. A hangover.

Stretching, she conducted a mental check of all joints, limbs, and ligaments. Sore, but sound. She rolled onto her stomach and buried her face in the pillows, trying to go back to sleep. Her eyes popped open as she realized she was only in her bra and jeans. Then she saw an empty duffel bag on the floor—Ian’s. 

She froze.

She was at Lallybroch, but this wasn’t her room.

* * *

 

Jenny sipped her third gin and tonic, her tongue idly playing with the black cocktail straw. She lingered alongside the nearby table, perusing its food contents for scraps. Wings, fries, onion rings—the grease stained empty paper baskets and napkins littered the tabletop. In the center sat a large white bucket, decorated in sharpie with four letter words and SEE YA LATER JAMIE, emptied of its contents of cheap beer and surrounded by the debris of disposable plastic cups.  

They were at a local pub in Broch Mordha, patrons laughing and sipping their own drinks at the tables nearby. Jamie was leaving for his internship in New York this weekend, and his friends Rupert and John had invited a large group out to give him a drunken send off.

It was a warm weekend evening, and the pub was crowded. Sounds of joviality reverberated along the graffitied walls, travelled along the pendants of green lampshades, and slithered along the draping, out-of-season Christmas lights. It smelled faintly of smoke, night time air, hops, and fried food.

Jamie was talking animatedly with Angus about... oh, Jenny didn’t care, tuning him out. Probably something to do with Wall Street. Or women.

“Jamie!” John pushed through the crowd, dragging his girlfriend, Isobel, along. He clapped Jamie on the shoulder as they grinned at each other, and John elbowed himself into the conversation with Angus.

“It was so nice of John to put this together,” Jenny shouted to Isobel over the music and noise of the crowd, slurping her drink down to the ice. The cold tonic water chilled her tongue and the gin was delightfully crisp for bottom-shelf booze.

Isobel rolled her eyes but smiled. “John’ll take any excuse to make Jamie happy.”

Jenny snickered. It was true—perhaps the worst kept secret in their social circle was John’s crush on Jamie—but it was so innocuous that John’s clear-headed girlfriend wasn’t threatened or jealous of the fact.

Rupert, red faced and properly sauced, let out a boisterous laugh and called for a server to refill the empty beer bucket. After scooping his plastic cup through the liquid, he held it aloft in Jamie’s direction, soft, pale foam dripping over his fingers. “To Jamie! Hard to believe yer leavin’ us.”

Jamie laughed, throwing an arm around his friend. “I’m no’ dying, ye fucking lard bucket. I’ll be back by fall.” Jenny noticed his high school ex-girlfriend, Laoghaire, clinging to his elbow, wide-eyed. Jamie subtly attempted to wiggle out of her grasp but was unsuccessful. She was stuck to his side.

“Aye, ye’ll no’ be dead, but ye’ll be in the States, which may be worse. Thank God for American pussy to pass the summer along quickly, eh!”

Their small group erupted in whistles, laughter, and “hear, hear!”, the loudest coming from the men. Jenny’s drink was empty, and she was thankful for the excuse to not support such male camaraderie. She turned away, the pleasant dimness of gin slowly fading into the clarity of agitation and embarrassment. Frankly, she didn’t like Rupert much.

“Here, Jen. For you.”

She looked up. Ian was there, holding a small basket of fries.

“I saw ye lookin’ over the table. Ye seemed hungry,” he said, answering the question on her face.

“Ah. Thanks, Ian.” She took the food from him, picking a fry to chew while he replaced his wallet back in his pocket.

In the few weeks Ian had been at Lallybroch, the orchard had undergone a pleasant transformation. Ian was a hard worker and fast learner, and with Jamie around to handle his orientation, Jenny had seen little of him. Ian often rose earlier than she did to greet the few staff they employed, and spent the entirety of his days tilling soil, checking machinery, mowing the lawns, landscaping, and caring for the orchard’s animals, among a myriad of other things. He would return to the farmhouse after dinner, reheat his food in the microwave, and then disappear into his room, leaving dusty footprints from his work boots—which Jenny had never seen him take off— on the stairs.

Jenny had been spending much of her time in Brian’s office—her office—developing a marketing campaign and formulating a cost-benefit analysis for their planned operations in the fall. Jamie would sometimes lounge on the office’s couch and help her, but his eyes often drifted to the window, preferring manual work with Ian in the nice weather.  

Ian was pulled into a game of darts with Angus, John, and Jamie. They were arguing passionately over who would be on whose team—eventually it was decided that Ian would be Angus’ partner and Jamie would be John’s. Laoghaire hovered nervously around the game, clearly wanting to be included. Isobel yawned in the background, and Jenny moved to take a seat by her.

Ian took his position behind the taped line on the floor, holding his dart aloft, aiming. When he threw it, it struck bullseye, much to the approbation of Jamie’s guests.

There was that one time they had run into each other in the farmhouse, Jenny reflected, keeping a peripheral eye on Ian as she pretended to listen to something Isobel was saying. She nibbled on the fries he bought her.

Jenny had come in from a lunchtime walk through the apple trees to find Ian in the kitchen. He stood up from the fridge, his eyes lingering on her. She had shot him a look, then moved to grab a glass from the top shelf of a cabinet. The dishes hadn’t been done in a while, and, being short, she had to stand on her tip toes to reach the glass at the back.

Ian had still held open the fridge door when she faced him again, his hand gripping the handle. His face had been hard to read, especially from under his baseball cap, but Jenny thought she saw him carefully assemble his features into something neutral. She brushed past him to grab the water pitcher, making some remark about conserving energy—maybe he could think to shut the fridge when he was finished, for once. He stepped away from her, quickly, avoiding her touch, awkwardly backing into the counter. When she faced him head on, he was level-headed again, giving her a half smile.

While Rupert and John argued over whose turn it should be to throw a dart, Jamie sidled over to Jenny and Isobel. “Do me a favor.”

“That didna sound like a question.” Jenny bit a fry.

“I need to get rid of Laoghaire. She’s trying to get me to go home wi’ her.”

Jenny snorted. “Oh aye? What’s different about tonight?” Jamie often backslid into Laoghaire’s arms when he was home from university.

“I dinna want her to think we’re… something… while I’m in New York.”

“Too much responsibility for ye?” Jenny mocked while Isobel snickered.

Ignoring this, Jamie pressed on. “Jenny, get her drunk. She’ll get too drowsy to follow me around. Ye ken ye can drink her under the table.”

It wasn’t a bad idea. Laoghaire dozing off would free Jamie for the night, and Jenny hadn’t had a carefree night out in a long while. She was stressed and overworked from the orchard—the tingle of booze might take the edge off.

Jenny pressed her lips together and narrowed her eyes at him, pretending to think about it. “Maybe so.”

“Thanks, you’re the best. Watch for my signal.” Jamie placed a brotherly kiss on her temple and moved back to the dart game.

“Why would he string her along if he wasn’t interested in anything serious?” Isobel leaned in conspiratorially, lowering her voice.

Jenny chuckled. “He doesna string her along. But sometimes he gets lonely. It’s Laoghaire that takes it too seriously.”

Isobel patted her arm. “I see,” she said, then laughed when she saw Jamie feign enthusiasm as he dragged Laoghaire over to them.

“Jenny, I bet ye could drink Laoghaire here under the table!”

“She cannot!” Laoghaire squeaked, eyeing Jenny dubiously.

Jamie whooped with false laughter. “I’ll buy six shots of whiskey, three for each of ye. We’ll see who can get through theirs the quickest.”

Laoghaire scoffed. “Child’s play.”

Jamie shot Jenny a pleading look, jerking his head at his ex, waiting for a response.

“Och, fine.”

Jenny handed Isobel her fries and went to the table, scoping out a spot for them. Laoghaire seemed more nervous now that all eyes were on her and Jenny, awkwardly grinning at Jamie as he returned with the shots. Jenny almost felt bad for her.

“Jenny Fraser canna beat me,” Laoghaire shouted, eyes darting over toward Jamie.

Jenny leaned on the table. She briefly caught Ian’s eye, who hung back, watching the game cautiously. “Watch and learn.”

Jamie called time, slapping the table, and Laoghaire and Jenny began pounding their shots. It wasn’t even a contest; Jenny downed her last one while Laoghaire had barely begun.

“Another!” called Rupert, shoving Laoghaire out of the way and pushing two of her shots to Jenny.

Grinning, Jenny threw those back, too, then gave the table an exaggerated bow, a court jester accepting praise after a trick. She stumbled a moment, then laughed as she plopped herself in a seat, landing with a thwump.

* * *

 

The night came back to Jenny in bits and pieces, her memory filled with holes, a slice of swiss cheese. She had danced—yes, her sore calves and hamstrings remembered that. Had she smoked? She made a face and forced her cotton tongue to check her mouth. Ugh. She had, indeed. Had she vomited?

Nervous, she shifted to the end of the bed, glancing wild-eyed around the floor, sniffing, searching for any inadvertent mess. No, she hadn’t vomited—at least not in the room.

Her blue t-shirt lay discarded on the floor. Heartbeat in her ears, her vision threatened to give way as her stomach sank. Oh god. She hastily took stock of herself. Her bra was still fastened, her belt still buckled. Surely, she wouldn’t have dressed again afterwards if anything had happened.

The bedroom door was closed and the farmhouse silent. Where was Ian? Her mind swirled with both hangover and humiliation. Despite her dizziness, she had to get out of his room as soon as possible.

Like a newly hatched gosling, Jenny sat up and combed her fingers through her hair. She slowly bent down and threw her shirt over her head.


	5. Sapling

 Jenny slowly opened the door, poking her head into the hallway. She looked both ways, hesitant, as if she was preparing to cross a busy street. But the hall was still, the farmhouse silent and empty. There was only movement from fluttering dust, shimmering in the spill of morning sun from the hallway window. The air smelled faintly of fresh coffee grounds and burnt toast—someone had made an early breakfast.

 

She slinked out, her toes sinking into the blue Turkish rug. She felt like a trespasser, a burglar, trying to make her body as small and unnoticeable as possible. Her room was directly across the hall. Two big, silent steps and she was safely inside, latching the door closed by leaning back against it. She exhaled the breath she had been holding.

 

Adso lay on her smooth, unused quilt. The cat had her legs tucked underneath her, resembling a plucked chicken. She let out a squawk, scolding her owner, and flicked her tail in judgment.

 

Jenny clicked her tongue at the animal to shush her, then collected herself. Her room, at least, would be safe from having to face Ian.

 

She heard the old screen door open and then close, a set of heavy footsteps thumping up the stairs. Ian’s boots. With a barely repressed squeak, Jenny jumped away from the door and shut herself in the ensuite bathroom.

 

After last night, if what her shirtless state suggested to her was true, several things would be at stake. Ian’s relationship with Jamie, her relationship with Jamie; and, above all, her friendship with Ian. How might things change if—if—oh god. Breathing heavy, she whipped open her medicine cabinet and rifled through its contents. Had she taken her pill yesterday? Her shaking hands quieted for a moment as she saw the appropriate pill was indeed gone.

 

She then snuck a peak at her panties, checking for that truth-telling patch of stickiness. And she wasn't sore. She sighed with relief to see nothing out of the ordinary. She had _guessed_ that it hadn’t gone that far, knowing Ian as well as she did, but she had to make certain. Having done everything she could to comfort herself in the absence of memory, she decided to shower, as much to wash away the day-old grime of drunkenness as to give her hands something to do.

 

She lathered up, her nervous fingers trying to untangle embarrassment and panic as they made and unmade tangles in her wet waves. She wished she could pretend last night had never happened, but the swimming in her head and the ache of her bones would not let her pretend, jolting her back to reality as she scrubbed herself.

 

How could she have been so stupid?

 

She dried and dressed for the day, racking her brain for any memory of last night. Nothing came—either because it was too embarrassing for her subconscious to admit, or because nothing significant happened. She jerked up her jeans and pulled her belt a little tighter than usual around her hips. Being nearly topless in Ian’s bed meant _something_ had happened, even if it hadn’t been _that_. Fuck.

 

The farmhouse had fallen into eerie silence again, and Ian was not inside. Straightening her shoulders, Jenny figured the best way to handle this was to face it head on. After searching the old garage, the barn, and several rows of trees, Jenny found Ian on a ladder in one of her apple trees.

 

It was unusually warm for early June, and God, the sunlight had an awful glare. She closed one eye against it and shielded her eyes from the sun with her hand. She could only see his legs and waist, braced against the ladder, his upper body obscured by blossoms and branches. He was working, trimming away dead or stunted growth, and petals rained down around her, shaken loose from his work.

 

“Uh,” she cleared her throat. “Ian?”

 

He stilled and peeked around a branch. “Jenny,” he called, catching a glimpse of her, the white and pink petals a sharp contrast to her dark, damp braided hair. He rested his clippers on a branch and swung down. He seemed hesitant, though, clinging to the last rung for just a moment.

 

“It’s Saturday, ye don’t need to work.”

 

He shrugged. “Keeps me busy. Hate being idle.”

 

She clasped her hands behind her back to stop their trembling. No point in beating around the bush. “Sorry for crashing in your room last night.”

 

“Och, it was no trouble.” His face was partially hidden in the bill of his cap and the shadow of the tree, but his voice was noncommittal and light. Even so, Jenny flushed. “Ye passed out like a rock. Figured it was best just to leave ye be.”

 

Unsettled by his relaxed tone, she felt uncertain. They stood quietly for a moment, Jenny hesitating because she didn’t know what happened, Ian hesitating because he did.

 

Finally, she broke the silence. “I…. I dinna ken what I got up to last night. Sorry for anything I did that may have made ye uncomfortable.”

 

Ian chuckled in reply. He wasn’t mad at her, at the very least. “I kent ye werena sensible. How much would ye like to know?”

 

Jenny swayed on her feet. God, did she really want to know any of it?

 

He gestured at the tree in invitation. “Here, let’s sit. Ye don’ look too good.”

 

Jenny scoffed defensively as she sat. “Please Ian, dinna spare me the gory details. I’ll be responsible for my actions.”

 

He patted dirt away from his jeans.  The fine brown hairs of his arms shone with dust, pollen, and sweat from his work in the apple tree. His neck flushed red in the heat, beads of sweat escaping around the curled hair at his temples.

 

“Well, I’ll tell ye most of it. If ye know it all ye may never talk to me again.” He laughed humorlessly.

 

Jenny froze. _Most? Never talk to him again?_

 

Ian continued, looking down at his arm, the bill of his cap completely hiding his face. “Ye were verra forward wi’ me.”

 

Her cheeks flamed. She forced herself to respond lightheartedly. “How so?”

 

“Well, at the pub, ye were… weird. I asked how ye were after those shots and ye sort of… clung to me after that. Isobel said the whisky made ye act like Laoghaire.”

 

Jenny grimaced at the comparison. _Ugh. Laoghaire?_

 

He pressed on. “Anyway. Ye kept asking me to dance, but you ken I don’t. So ye got all mad at me and followed Rupert and Angus out for a smoke. When ye came back –God, ye stank! —you were all…” he trailed off, his nose wrinkled, probably remembering the burnt stench of cigarette smoke in her hair and clothing. He gestured vaguely in the air with his hands, drawing some scene Jenny couldn’t interpret. Did his hands shake?

 

“And later, ye sort of collapsed on me. Ye grabbed my arms and said, ‘take me home,’ so I did, thinkin’ ye were ready to pass out—ye did seem a bit sluggish, but I suppose that’s how all drunk folk are, and I was the only sober person in the place, I was proud of ye for asking a sober lad—but, ah.” He laughed awkwardly, coughing politely and looking away.

 

Jenny swallowed. “What?”

 

“Well, Janet.” He gave her a lopsided smile, his brown eyes full of humor now, warm and steady even in shadow. “Ye tried to sleep wi’ me.”

 

She inadvertently laughed. The idea sounded ridiculous coming from his mouth, and she relaxed into friendship with him. “Ugh, why would I ever try that?”

 

He winced, but shrugged and unleashed a smile.  “I dinna ken. Probably because ye were drunk as a skunk and I just happened to be in the room.”

 

“Maybe so. Hopefully I wasn’t too …?”

 

He stilled. “What do ye mean?”

 

“I mean, ah,” she paused, tracing her fingers through the grass.

 

“Ye mean to ask me if I took advantage of you?”

 

She blushed but met his gaze. “No, I just assume you didn’t. I mean to check… did I… was I… did _I_ take advantage of _you_?” she finished lamely, ashamed again.

 

He shook his head. “No, for a drunk, ye were verra respectful. Thanks for worrying about my honor. Yours, though.” He tsked mockingly, then turned serious. He paused. “Rupert, he wouldna leave ye alone last night. Ye really didna look like ye wanted the attention, so I fended him off for you. That was when ye told me you wanted to leave.”

 

“Can I ask ye a question?”

 

“Have ye no’ just been doing so?”

 

“Hmph. Well. Why didn’t you put me to bed in my room?”

 

The unspoken question: _What about my missing shirt?_

 

He shrugged, not meeting her gaze. “I _had_ put ye to bed. I went back to my own room, ye ken, but there ye were, standin’ in my doorway." He stopped.

 

Her heart thudding, she waited for him to speak. 

 

"Ye said something like, ‘Ian, I want you.' And then you grabbed me, and… and kissed me. Well, ye tried to, at least. Turns out sober folk have better reflexes than drunk ones. You stuck your hands in my pockets and…” He blushed. “I had to fend you off of me _,_ then. Sometimes ye dinna ken what yer doing when you’re drunk.”

 

“Okay,” Jenny replied cautiously, her curiosity overcoming her bashfulness, even as she could feel him next to her. “So how did my shirt get to be off?”

 

“You threw it off. Then ye sat on the bed wi’ your head between your knees. I left to get you some water. When I came back, ye were asleep. You sleep like a log, did ye know that? Like a sack of potatoes. And ye were taking up the whole damn bed, laying diagonal and all sprawled out. I had to sleep on the couch.” He rubbed his neck, and his arm bumped the bill of the hat up, exposing his face. “I have quite the crick in the neck, now.”

 

“Ian,” she gasped. She reached out, pulled his hat off his head. “Why do you have a black eye?”

 

“Och.” He waved her concern away.

 

“ _Ian._ ” She dropped his hat in the dirt, lightly tracing her fingers along the purple and rouge bruise on his cheek. “What happened?”

 

He sighed, looking down. “Ye hit me.”

 

She jerked away. “Not me!”

 

“Oh, aye.”

 

“Not on purpose!”

 

“Aye, on purpose.”

 

“Why on earth would I do that!”

 

He cleared his throat and grabbed for his hat, which he shook out, then replaced on his head. His gaze was stern now, distant. “Why do you think?”

 

She blinked, the memory coming back to her. _Oh god._

 

She was in his room. The walls were spinning. The only solid thing, the only thing reflecting light in the darkness: Ian. She reached for his belt buckle, tugged, trying to pull at the clasp. He stilled her hands, stepping away, pushing her back, his thumbs pressing on her hipbones. She whipped her shirt over her head, then crushed their torsos together. She thought she felt his big hands on the small of her back, warm, soft, tentative. She hooked her hands into his pockets, reaching, stretching the linen of the pocket liner to touch him, all the while tapping her hips against his. Tap, tap. She can feel the brush of his fly against her lower belly even now, his belt loops in her fingers.

 

He had grabbed her elbows, extricated her fingers, pushed her back. Held out a hand to keep her at bay, and she remembered his hand on her sternum, angled away from the swell of her breasts. “ _Ye dinna ken what you are—agh!”_

She _had_ punched him. She flexed her hand, checking the soreness of her knuckles.

 

Her breath caught in her throat. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

 

Good natured as always, he chuckled, then stood. “Aye, I ken that.” He extended a hand to help her up, then climbed back into his apple tree, disappearing into leaves and blossoms.

 

“Back to work, eh?”


	6. Twig

Jenny stood in an old barn on the edge of the property, holding a clipboard, waiting for Dougal and Mrs. Fitz to arrive. She anxiously reviewed the papers in front of her, the itemized invoice for the produce she had purchased, the terse emails she and Dougal had sent back and forth the day before.

 

_Seven percent? What the hell is he thinking?_

 

Last year, under Jenny’s leadership, Lallybroch Orchards had agreed to purchase several orders of ginger, blueberries, raspberries, cranberries, and cherries from Mackenzie Farms, planning different flavors for this year’s cider release. It was a verbal agreement, something they hashed out at a family cookout over burgers and beer shortly after Brian Fraser had passed.

 

Dougal knew she was desperate. Lallybroch was too poor to meet the price offered by other farms, and Jenny knew that without a competitive edge in the cider market this fall, Lallybroch could sink into bankruptcy. So Dougal had offered her a massive discount on produce from Mackenzie Farms, but with strings attached. Mackenzie Farms would take five percent of all profits from cider this year. Jenny yelled and ranted at him, calling such an offer “absurd” and “absolutely ridiculous,” but she took it. She had to.

 

But now, Jenny looked at an email she received from Dougal the other day. He said that they had agreed on seven percent instead of five, insisted that she was just remembering wrong. _Asshole_. Taking a cut of the cider sales was just a way for Dougal to take more and more control over Lallybroch Orchards, just a way for him to needle away at her, to pressure her into selling the orchard to Mackenzie’s.

 

She saw the risk involved in all of this. She had never directed cider production before now. She had never planned a major event, an opening day for the orchard, which was rapidly approaching at the end of August. Dougal had decades of sales and business experience on her, and she had no idea what traps he had laid for her.

 

_Christ, running a business is tedious._

 

She sighed, walking the perimeter inside the barn. Natural light poured in through cracks in the wood and the large open window above the entryway; the space was mostly empty save for the several large vats of fermenting cider towards the back and a few folding tables and chairs. Old stables had been knocked down long ago to make way for a cider press, which had been very busy over the last year, tending to a full apple crop. She brushed her hand along the cider press, the vats full of cider she had helped produce, and she felt her heart swell with pride and excitement.

 

Maybe she really could do this, she thought, taking in the sight of her small yet mighty cider production line in the old barn. Earlier this week, she and Ian had cleaned out the power tools and clutter, straightening the space to look tidy for her uncle’s visit. She remembered how easily Ian had pushed an old, broken down tractor out of the barn by hand. She had paced swiftly alongside the machine, offering to lean her weight into it when they needed to go over uneven ground.

 

They hadn’t talked about the night she punched him—among other things—since that day under the apple tree. His black eye was fading to a sallow yellow, and Jenny was anxious for it to fade altogether.

 

And over the past few weeks, she had become very aware of how often her eyes wandered over to him while he worked, perhaps watching his shoulders move as he put down mulch from her office window, or how often her mind drifted to his room across the hall, where she could see his shadow pass underneath the closed door as she sat reading in her own room.

 

“Hello!” sang a plump woman cheerily as she stepped into the warm barn, arms heavy with wooden crates. “Here are yer berries. Where shall I put them?”

 

“Oh, just over there,” Jenny replied, pointing to an empty corner in the barn.

 

Gently setting the crate down, Mrs. Fitz brushed her hands of dust and turned to Jenny. Mrs. Fitz was the master gardener at Mackenzie Farms, overseeing every step of crop production, from seed planting to harvest, from packaging to distribution. “There are more in the truck, would ye help me grab them?”

 

“Dinna trouble yerselves. We’ve got them.” Dougal entered the barn, his shadow cast long even on an overcast day, followed closely by Ian, each laden with crates full of berries. They trotted over to where Mrs. Fitz was standing, setting the produce down.

 

“And the ginger?” Jenny asked, tapping the invoice on the clipboard with her fingertips.

 

“I’ll grab it,” said Ian, already stepping out, heading toward the dark green truck parked on the lawn.

 

Casting a sidelong glance at Dougal, Jenny followed Ian outside.

 

Looking over the dozen or so crates on the truck bed, she whipped around to her uncle. “This isna everything. There should be three or four times this much,” she snapped.

 

He looked back at her evenly, standing in the barn’s doorway. “Aye, and there will be, if ye prove ye can use it properly. I’ll not be giving away our crops for them to be ruined by a lass who doesna ken how to brew cider. Bad for the Mackenzie name. Especially the ginger! Do ye not realize how hard it is for ginger to grow in Scotland? Tch!”  He came forward and patted a ginger crate on the truck bed.

 

She thought she heard Ian mumble something under his breath as she rounded on her uncle. “Ye didna _give_ your crops to me. Lallybroch purchased them.”

 

Mrs. Fitz appeared then and placed her hand on Jenny’s shoulder. “Now, now, dear, let’s not argue. Ye ken as well as I do your uncle is just giving ye a hard time.”

 

Jenny brushed the hand off and stepped forward, glaring. This was an ambush. He didn’t bring the full delivery. He tried to tell her he’s owed seven percent. He was counting on her letting something go, but she knew one thing would lead to the next. Take the bricks out one by one.

 

“Ye owe us the full order. Deliver it. Do ye want to renegotiate your share?”

 

Dougal rubbed a palm across his face. “I willna argue. Ye’ll get it when its ready, Jenny.”

 

“What he means to say,” Mrs. Fitz interjected, “is that this is what was ready to ship to you today. Dinna worry. Ye’ll get your berries. And your ginger. Let’s finish unloading.”

 

Jenny bristled, shoved between two business people, feeling out of her league. “We’ll talk about your payment for the produce, and your share of the cider sales, when you deliver the rest.”

 

Dougal scoffed, and they unloaded the rest of the delivery in silence.  After setting down the last crate, he took a seat at the open table in the barn. “Anything flavored yet I can test?”

 

“Ye ken verra well there isn’t.”

 

“I dinna ken that,” he sneered, “Ye could have hired an outside farm.”

 

Ian moved to open a small cask set aside for tasting and jerked his head at Jenny, a signal to follow him.

 

He paused, then leaned towards her, and she felt her breath draw short with a bubble of anxiety. The yellow bruise still immediately apparent on his face. Her own sloppiness looking directly at her. “Dinna trouble yourself about him. He’s trying to get under your skin.”

 

Ian tapped the cask as she took a stack of plastic cups from the packaging beside it, sighing. “I ken that.”

 

His arm brushed against hers as he cracked the cask open, and Jenny swayed. He smiled at her from the corner of his mouth, giving her a sidelong glance. “Seems to be working, even though ye _ken_ it.”

 

Before she could stop herself, she found herself saying, “Do you think this is all a good idea?”

 

Ian reached out to pull a plastic cup off the stack she clutched in her hands. She thought she felt his fingers squeeze hers briefly as he nodded. He filled the cup about halfway, then raised it to eye level, inspecting the liquid. It was copper in color and opaque—unfiltered cider, the best kind in her opinion, and it swirled evenly around the cup. He took a drink. “That’s good cider, Janet. Dinna worry.”

 

He handed the cup to her, and she felt her cheeks warm as she sipped. It _was_ good cider. Crisp, aromatic, and light, bringing a tingle of carbonation to her tongue. “Mm, this batch would be good with ginger!” she exclaimed, her voice a little louder than intended.

 

Dougal called out to them. “If you two are quite done I would appreciate a taste myself. Let’s move along.”

 

Ian reached to fill his cup again, rolling his eyes so that only Jenny could see, and then drank it all despite Dougal’s protest. She smiled to herself and returned to their guests.

 

“Here ye are.” Jenny handed her uncle and Mrs. Fitz a glass.

 

Dougal was silent as he drank, his eyebrows rising in obvious surprise. “When ye told me it was unfiltered, Janet, I was worried, I’ll admit.” He drank again, then wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt. “But it’s not terrible.”

 

Jenny was unamused. “A compliment, uncle? I can hardly believe it. What do ye think of this batch with some ginger?” she asked Mrs. Fitz.

 

“Mmm, yes.” Mrs. Fitz did now what Ian had done a moment ago, lifting her cup to glance through the cider in the light, watching delicate apple pulp swirl and roll through her drink. “Very nice.”

 

* * *

 

 

Jenny tried to escape into the trees later that day on some feinted excuse, attempting to avoid Dougal and his sharp questions or slights as the meeting drew to a close. But he had waited for her, cornering her in the last row of trees near the farmhouse. He approached, his tall form shadowy from the canopy of tree branches, stopping in front of her, blocking her path, his arm up on a branch.

 

“It was very kind of ye to hire Ian, Janet.”

 

“What do ye mean it was _kind_ of me?”

 

He flicked a leaf out of his face. “What does he do here?”

 

Jenny narrowed her eyes. “He tends the land while I handle the business. Sometimes I help him and sometimes he helps me.”

 

“Oh? And how often have ye seen him at work?”

 

She frowned. “I dinna need to see him work to know he’s good for Lallybroch, uncle. I mean, look.” She gestured towards the tree they were under, its leaves bright green and branches growing heavy with budding apples.

 

“Nay, lass. That’s not what I’m on about.” He peered down his nose at her.

 

“Speak, then.”

 

He smirked. “Does he,” he paused, searching for words, “struggle?”

 

“Does he _struggle_?” she repeated, lost.

 

“Mmphm.”

 

She was firm, her brows drawn. “No.”

 

“Hmph.” Dougal leaned back against the trunk of a tree, “Okay, then. If ye say so.” He cocked an eyebrow, and she felt restless under his gaze. But she waited, her body still, resisting the urge to stare down at her toes or cower away. Instead, she scowled at him.

 

“I willna defend my choice to hire Ian, and I willna allow ye to call my choices into question.”

 

He grinned then, with a glint in his eye that Jenny didn’t recognize. “I’m no’ calling yer choice into question. I will, however, question yer choice to hire a man ye dinna ken anything about.”

 

She bristled. “I have known Ian my whole life—”

 

He held up a hand. “Lass, ye dinna ken him as well as ye think.”

 

She glanced toward the farmhouse, where she saw Ian listening closely to something Mrs. Fitz was going on about. “I ken him just fine, and certainly well enough to employ him.”

 

Dougal stood straight, shaking his head slowly. “From the way you’re talkin’ lass, clearly, ye don’t. And I dinna think ye would have hired him if ye had a clue.”

 

Her fists clenched.

 

Glee. It was glee glinting in his eye. The sun came through from the west, causing one of his green eyes to glow. “Ian’s a cripple.”

 

Jenny certainly wasn’t expecting that. “Excuse me?”

 

“The man’s got no leg. What are ye doing lettin’ him climb ladders and handle machinery? It’s a liability for the orchard, ye’re puttin’ everyone at risk. And him, tch! Lyin’ to you.” He shook his head.

 

“Ian is no liability.” Jenny worked to keep doubt out of her voice. “How do ye ken this anyway?”

 

He smirked. “Jamie told me about it a few years back, when it happened.”

 

“When _what_ happened?”

 

“The accident.”

 

“What accident?”

 

“Man was in a terrible car crash. Another person hit him at a stoplight, and his vehicle ended up wrapped around a lightpost. He’s lucky he survived. His foot didna, though,” he added ruefully.

 

“Ye know, uncle, it has never looked to me like Ian is missing anything.”

 

“Ach, Janet. The man wears a prosthetic.”

 

She was dumbfounded. “Huh?”

 

He spoke slowly, enunciating the consonants. “A prosthetic, ye daft woman. Fake leg.”

 

Her brows drew together. “Weel, it doesna affect his work on the orchard if that’s the case. Why should I care? He does an excellent job here.”

 

Dougal leaned toward her. “Ye should care. It’s risky asking him to do manual labor.”

 

“People with protheses work regular jobs all the time.”

 

Dougal let out a breath. “Jenny. I ken he’s your friend and you’re trying to protect him.”

 

“ _Protect—!_ ”

 

He cut her off, “But think. Is the man really your friend if he wouldna share such a thing with you? Isn’t it dishonest of him to not disclose every way that he could be a risk to the orchard, and to you?”

 

“He’s no’ a risk, and he never will be.”

 

“Is he no’?” Her uncle cocked his head to the side. “Why would he have kept it from you, then, if he didna doubt everything would be fine?”

 

She glanced back toward Ian, eyeing his legs, trying to identify which one might be fake. But he just looked like Ian.

 

“Are ye lyin’ to me, uncle?”

 

“Nay, lass. I’m not.” He came ever closer, eyeing her intently. “Keep an eye on the man, and on your apple trees.”

 

 

 


	7. Weeds

Jenny was driving the orchard truck down a dirt road, heading home from the Broch Mordha hardware store.

 

Ian sat in the passenger seat, hand clenched around a knee. He lifted his blue baseball cap from his head and scratched, frowning.

 

When Ian had approached her in her office earlier that day, announcing that he was leaving to grab a tool for that broken-down tractor he had taken to restoring in his free time, Jenny insisted she go with him. And she had insisted that she drive, ignoring his protests as she grabbed the keys and slid into the driver’s seat. He hadn’t spoken to her since, sensing something was wrong.

 

It was midday, and the sun was high, the sky a clear blue. With her window down, and warm summer air rushing into the truck’s small cab, Jenny brushed back flyaway hairs from her eyes and mouth. She stared straight ahead, across the blue horizon, the comforting roll of farmland passing by in her peripheral. Occasionally, she snuck covert glances at Ian’s lap, trying to discern which leg was prosthetic. He was bouncing one leg up and down, an absent tick shared with most people.

 

This morning, after nearly pacing a hole in her carpet all night, a furious Jenny had FaceTimed Jamie, now in New York. She hadn’t texted or emailed or otherwise announced her call. There was no time for that.

 

Why hadn’t he told her Ian had been hurt? She had known Ian as long as he had.

 

When she called, she was greeted by a dark screen and a loud rustling. Then a light turned on, and there was her brother’s face, squinting in the light.

 

“Jenny, what the hell. It’s 4am.”

 

“9am,” she snapped back.

 

His brow furrowed, his grogginess fading away. “Is everything ok?”

 

“No—yes—maybe!” she hissed. “I don’t know how I feel. Stop judging me.”

 

Jamie relaxed into his pillow and rubbed his eyes. “Jenny, why are ye calling me in the wee hours of the morning?”

 

Finally, an easy question to answer. “Dougal came by yesterday.”

 

“Oh, aye? How’d that go?” He was sounding sleepier, unconcerned.

 

“Went fine. Bad, I mean. Ye ken how he is.”

 

“Mmphmm.”

 

She ran a hand through her hair, taking a seat at the edge of her bed. A moment passed, and she watched the leaves on the trees of the orchard flutter light and dark green in the morning sun.

 

“Jenny,” Jamie admonished, “Ye wouldn’t have called me if it wasna bad. What is it?”

 

“He—he said…” she trailed off. “He said Ian was in a car accident. That it caused injury to his leg and—and that it couldna be saved. Is that true? Ian is missing a leg?”

 

Jamie nodded, thinking. “Oh. Yes. Happened a few years ago.”

 

“He’s okay, then?”

 

Jamie sat up. “Look at him, Janet. He’s fine. You didna even notice he wears a prosthetic, right? Of course he’s fine.”

 

“Wait,” he said, squinting, “Dougal told you? Ian didna tell you about it?”

 

“No. Ian keeps to himself.”

 

“Why are ye talking to me about this?” Jamie said, rolling his eyes, “Does it bother you that he’s a wee pirate?”

 

Jamie laughed at his own joke, but Jenny chafed. “It’s not funny!”

 

“What?” Jamie chuckled, “Come on! He calls it his peg leg.”

 

“Ugh,” Jenny scoffed, “He’s never mentioned a fake leg to me.”

 

Jamie gave a short hum, his lips pursed. “Well, why are ye talking to me? Shouldn’t you be haranguing Ian about it?”

 

“No. I want to know why you didn’t tell me about it when it happened.”

 

Her brother blinked, surprised, as if the answer was obvious. “Ian told me not to tell ye.”

 

“What? Why?”

 

His voice was matter of fact, humor receding. “Weel, I dinna ken exactly. But I know when I saw him in the hospital, I told him ye’d like to know what happened and that he was alright. I was going to call you, but he stopped me.”

 

“Why would he do that?”

 

Jamie gave a resigned sigh. “I don’t know why, Janet. But when your oldest friend looks like death—and he did, banged up and drugged as he was—well, when he asks ye to do something, ye do it. No questions asked. Maybe he wanted to tell ye himself, but he decided not to.”

 

Something stirred in the bed behind Jamie, and he turned to look behind him, saying something low and quiet. Jenny then noticed the shape of a woman’s hips covered with sheets, and her mouth dropped open in astonishment. She barked a laugh at this, causing Jamie to glance back at her, startled.

 

“Who is  _that_?” Jenny cried.

 

“Jamie? Who are you talking to at this hour?” came the woman’s voice. Jenny saw her legs shift, starting to push her upright.

 

Jamie’s face went white, then with a shuffle and a beep, he had hung up, leaving Jenny alone.

 

The truck lurched, followed by a loud pop. Ian gripped his door handle, cursing, while Jenny gasped, steadying the wheel.

 

There was a suspicious flapping noise coming from the back of the vehicle, and with a hissed “ _fuck_ ,” Jenny flicked on the hazards and pulled over to the grassy shoulder.

 

“A flat tire,” Ian said, climbing out of the cab.

 

“Yep,” he continued, patting the metallic truck bed as she came around to inspect the rear wheels. Jenny sighed with exasperation at the popped rear passenger tire.

 

“Well, nothing to do but change it,” she muttered, standing close to the tire, between it and Ian.

 

He peered at her from under the bill of his cap, watching as she unbuttoned and shook out of her blouse, exposing the white tank top underneath. She placed the shirt in the truck and crouched, trying to get a glimpse of the underside of the bed.

 

“Oh, good! We have a tire. I dinna ken how old it is, though it should work just fine.” She stood then and jogged around to the cab, opening the door and setting the parking brake. Reaching back, she grabbed the lug wrench and car jack from behind the seat.

 

“I’ll do it, Jenny.” Ian appeared next to her, reaching for the jack.

 

“No, I’ve got it,” she replied, a little too cheery as she darted forward, ducking around his arm. “Ground is level. Hopefully the truck doesna roll forward when I jack up the end here.”

 

After the car was sufficiently raised, Jenny crawled onto the ground, laying on her back, looking to loosen the joists that secured the tire underneath the truck’s bed. Dust wafted up around her as she shifted on the ground, and pebbles bit into her shoulder. It was hot under the truck, like she had been slid into an oven.

 

As she worked, she peeked surreptitiously at Ian’s work boots, visible beneath the truck. He was still, but uncertain, and to Jenny it seemed as though his bouncing leg from earlier had grown into a wider anxious energy, as if his whole body now bounced.

 

She had to ask about the accident, she knew, climbing out from under the truck with the tire in her arm. She dropped it next to the aloft wheel and brushed dirt from her lower back.

 

Before she could stop him, Ian grabbed the lug wrench and began loosening the lug nuts from the wheel.

 

“Ian, stop it, I can do it. Let me.” She knelt beside him and put her hand around his on the wrench. Her hand was small against his, but strong.  

 

With a quick inhale of breath, Ian jerked away, releasing the wrench to her. He rocked back on his heels, dropping back so he was sitting in the grass. His gaze was cool, but level.

 

Jenny looked away, flushing, and concentrated on taking the bad wheel off the car.

 

Ian picked at the grass as she worked, rolling a clump of it between his hands and then letting it fall. The wind caught a few blades, carrying it to Jenny’s face. She wiped the grass off with her forearm, blowing it away softly as she tightened the final lug nuts on the spare, securing the new tire in place.

 

Feeling Ian’s gaze on her, she stood, lifted the bad wheel, and tossed it into the truck bed. Nervously, she loosened the jack, lowering the car back down.

 

“I knew ye would react like this,” came Ian’s voice from behind her.

 

She brushed her hands of dirt, turned to look at him. He had stood, too.

 

“React to what?” she asked, looking over his shoulder into the sky beyond. Farmland made a patchwork quilt of the landscape. “Ready to go? I’ll drop you off then take the truck out for a new tire.” She reached for her blouse, sliding it over her arms, and left it unbuttoned. She looped a finger through the key ring, moving to get back in the truck.

 

Ian jerked toward her then, grabbing her arm and turning her to look at him. Mouth agape, Jenny looked at his fingers, wrapped around her elbow. He was firm, but not forceful, asking for her full attention.

 

“I know you know,” he said, giving her arm a squeeze and letting go. He spoke softly. “Ye’ve figured it out. Ye’re not yourself, and you’re treating me different.”

 

She looked at him from under her eyelashes, stepping back, chin raised defiantly. “I dinna ken what ye’re talking about, Ian.”

 

He snapped back at her. “Ye want to know about it, then? What happened?”

 

“There must be nothing to know, ye havena said anything to me.” She shrugged with one shoulder, her mouth set firm.

 

“Damn it, Jenny.” He took his cap off and put it back on, his hands moving restlessly against his clothing. He began to pace in the patchy grass, and inadvertently Jenny glanced at his legs. He saw.

 

“That! It’s that! Ye do know. Ugh!” After several muttered curses, he came to a stop and pressed his palm into his eyes. His hat bumped up at the movement.

 

Jenny was silent for a moment. She swallowed. “What do I know, Ian?”

 

“Ye know about my leg.”

 

Something in her face confirmed it for him. Perhaps the confirmation that she knew—something that he had both sought and fought against all day—perhaps he hadn’t wanted it after all.

“That goddamn bastard,” Ian barked, “Dougal did tell ye, then.”

 

She softened, stepping towards him. “Why didn’t you tell me? Ye should know I wouldna care.”

 

He scoffed, stepping back from her. “Ye do care! Look at how ye’ve been treating me since Dougal left.” He raised the pitch of his voice, mimicking the feminine tonality of hers, “‘Let me go to the store wi’ ye, Ian;’ ‘Let me drive, Ian;’ ‘Oh no, Ian, I’ll handle the tire all alone, thank ye.’ ‘Dinna trouble yerself, Ian.’ And all the while ye’re starin’ at me, and my legs, and I ken what ye’re thinking. I  _knew_  you’d react just like everyone else.”

 

Jenny inhaled sharply. “Excuse me?  _Like everyone else?_ ”

 

Ian resumed pacing. “Ye’re just the same. Once ye find out about my leg, all of a sudden, I canna do anything for myself anymore. Ye have to be right there, gettin’ in my way. As if I am not a man who has taken care of himself  _and_ your land these past weeks. Ye said yerself Lallybroch has never looked better or had a more promising crop. Have I no’ done everything a whole man can do? Ye want someone else?” He used hand movements to emphasize his point.

 

“Ian, that’s not—”

 

“Och.” He shook his head, his mouth twisted in contempt, about to launch into another tirade.

 

But she stomped towards him, whipping his hat off his head, tossing it to the earth. He stood there, stunned.

 

“Ye willna put yourself down or mock me anymore,” she said in measured tones. “Now tell me. Why did I have to hear about your accident from Dougal?”

 

He shrank away from her, doused with a new sobriety. He looked down to their feet—his work boots, her sneakers, facing each other, both dusty from their work at the orchard.

 

After several deep breaths, he spoke, his head still down. “I couldna bear it. Everyone thinks they’re being nice, when they,” he used finger quotes, “‘help me,’ or say they’re ‘so sorry.’” He clenched his hands into fists. “I don’t want anyone’s pity.”

 

Jenny reached out, placed a hand on his shoulder, giving him a little shake. “Weel, ye can rest assured I don’ pity you. Angry wi’ ye, sure, for being a giant blockheid.” She smiled then, taking that hand and giving him a playful shove.

 

What did she have to be angry about, really? Ian would deal with it as he may, she had no control of that.

 

He rolled his eyes, his lips slowly curving into a tentative smile. “Angry wi’ me?”

 

“Mm-hm. Angry. Angry that ye didna tell me, that ye hid it from me. But I’m especially angry at you for thinkin’ I would carry on in such a way, that I would think less of ye, or pity ye, or feel sorry for ye, or think ye canna do everything ye want. I never thought less of you; I…I thought there was something wrong with me, that ye didna trust me. I ken you’re embarrassed, but why did ye say Jamie couldna share wi’ me? I asked him, ye ken, and he said ye told him not to say a word. I am angry about that.” But she smiled. She spoke of anger, but her voice was warm, friendly. She placed her hand back on his shoulder. It was thick with muscle, and the feel of it surprised her. He was so slim. Looks alone didn’t convey his strength. “Why did ye hide it?”

 

He looked up, meeting her gaze now. Something she recognized, yet couldn’t name, swam deep through his wide, brown eyes. He closed his eyes, slowly, then opened them again.

 

“Because I couldna take it if you were the one treating me like others have. Maybe I didna trust you, but I should have.”

 

Ian breathed out heavily, then went to grab his hat, blown a few feet away in the wind. As he walked back towards the truck, he slapped it against his knee, freeing the dirt caught in it, and smoothed it down on his head.

 

“Wait,” Jenny blurted out, “Ian…” She paused, silent, the words lost.

 

Ian quickly turned, his eyes fixed to hers, unwavering. “Yes, Jen?”

 

“We should go.”


	8. Pebble

Jenny lay awake in bed, watching the red _“:”_ of her alarm clock blink, blink, blink the seconds of the night away.

 

_1:56._

 

She had tried every trick in the book: counting sheep, breathing exercises, opening a window, placing her phone out of reach. However, her mind spun unintelligible thoughts, flashes of doomed prophecy.

 

_1:57._

 

Cider is bitter. Donuts are stale. Apples are rotten. Opening day is a flop. No sales.

 

_1:58._

 

Trees get sick. No apples. Trees die. No money. Lallybroch goes bankrupt. Lallybroch is sold.

 

_1:59._

 

The Fraser family tree is cut down. Ian leaves her behind.

 

_2:00._

Inhaling sharply, Jenny threw off the covers and sat up, resting her bare feet on the floor. If she couldn’t sleep, she wouldn’t waste the time.

 

She clicked on her bedside lamp and flinched at the sudden flood of yellow light. Opening the end table drawer, she withdrew a small black notebook and pen then shifted back against the headboard, drawing up her knees in to a makeshift table.

 

It had been nearly five years since she wrote in this black notebook, the last entry dated from before she had left Lallybroch. It was a place where she had scratched down late-night inspiration, short improvised poems, or translations of thoughts formed in the haze of exhaustion. A snapshot of the things she considered important enough to be recorded could be found in between it's hard covers.

 

She ran her fingers over the front cover, greeting an old friend. She flipped to the last page her handwriting could be found on.

Jenny had filled several notebooks just like it since while she was away from Lallybroch. Her notebooks were a net that caught everything ranging from to-do lists, notes from class, and appointments she had to remember, all the way to short story bursts,  turns of phrases she particularly liked, and memories she wanted to hold tight to. She exhaled a breath, briefly speculating on why she hadn’t thought to write anything over the past year she had been home.

With a small smile, she scratched the date into the corner and began to write.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It was always the same nightmare that woke her. Jenny jerked awake from a terrible dream, taking a moment to shed it from her consciousness. The black notebook lay beside her, still open to the page where she had stopped mid-sentence, pen still in her hand.

A quick glance to her window saw the faint glow of the morning sun, and her lamplight doused the room in an eerie haze, shadows shifting restlessly in Jenny’s dreamlike state. A scratching noise came from somewhere inside the room, and Jenny shuddered, trying to shoo away the faint panic in her subconscious.

 

But the scratching didn’t stop. Her door. Probably the cat, trying to get in, a paw hooked underneath the door, trying to shake it open.

 

Jenny closed her black notebook and tucked it under her arm, sliding the pen behind her ear. No sleep at all today.

 

She opened her bedroom door in time to see Adso’s backside scurry across the hall and down the stairs. Then Ian’s door unlatched and cracked open in the grey morning light. Jenny stopped short at the sight of him, sleepy-eyed and hair disheveled, in rumpled t-shirt and sweatpants. Surprise flashed momentarily across his face at the unexpected sight of her.

 

“What was that?” he asked, voice heavy with drowsiness.

 

“Cat,” Jenny offered apologetically. “Go back to bed.”

 

Ian retreated into his room, closing the door, and Jenny tiptoed down the stairs to the sitting room.

 

* * *

 

 

“There’s coffee in the kitchen,” Jenny called, hearing Ian come down the stairs later that morning. She was on the old floral couch, sipping her own coffee cup, looking over her handwritten thoughts from the sleepless night.

 

A few moments later, he walked into the sitting room holding the almost empty carafe. “Warm up?”

 

Other than the briefest of moments this morning, this was the first time Jenny had seen Ian in anything other than  his work clothes since he moved in last month. Scanning him from foot to head, she saw black socks, sweatpants, t-shirt. He smirked when she glanced at his leg.

 

He held the carafe up again. “Coffee?”

 

She quickly snapped her notebook shut and tucked it between her hip and the armrest. Flashing an exaggerated smile, she held her mug out. “Sure, thanks.”

 

“What’s that?” he asked, nodding toward the hidden notebook.

 

She waved a hand. “Och, nothing.”

 

He let out a low grunt, setting the empty carafe on the coffee table. He took a seat next to her, clutching his coffee mug with two hands. She drew her legs up under her, careful not to touch him, and draped a nearby blanket to cover her lap. She was still in her shorts and tank top from last night, her hair a sleep-mussed plait. She undid it and set about braiding it again, giving her hands something to do.

 

“I have a meeting with Rabbie at the supply store this afternoon to go over our fertilization technique. I think we can use another product and get better results. Plus, it’ll be better for the environment. You mind if we switch to something else?” he said.

 

“No, sounds fine,” she said, concentrating on her hair.

 

“I thought maybe Joseph would come wi’ me. Do ye need him today?”

 

Joseph was a longtime laborer at the orchard and old friend of her parents, someone Jenny often turned to for guidance when Ian was unsure. He was also friends with Rabbie, who owned Broch Mordha’s only farm supply shop.

 

“Looking for a discount, aye?” she muttered, her lips twitching over her coffee.

 

“Maybe so.” He leaned back, then scooted to the far end of the couch, turning to face her. “Ye were up early this morning. I usually dinna see ye before work.”

 

Jenny looked down, her thumb idly running along the edge of her notebook. “Aye, well. It is how it is.”

 

“Everything okay? I didna upset ye yesterday?” Perhaps unconsciously, his hand moved over his right shin, smoothing the pant leg down. Must be his prosthetic, Jenny realized.

 

“No,” she said, inhaling deeply. “Ye didna upset me.”

 

“No? Nothing’s wrong?”

 

“I’m a bit distracted, maybe. Ye have to admit, it’s a little bit distracting to think I have a body part that ye don’t,” she blurted out.

 

“Oh, aye,” he chuckled. “Very distracting.”

 

* * *

 

 

After dinner, Jenny padded over to her nightstand, thinking she would jot down some thoughts from the day. Despite her sleepless night, her creative drought felt flooded now, and her hands ached to get everything down.

 

But when she opened the drawer, her black notebook wasn’t there. _Oh my god._ Where had she left it?

 

She felt blood drain from her face. _The couch._

 

She ran down the stairs, nearly tripping over herself as she landed at the bottom of the staircase. She could hear Ian moving around the kitchen, cleaning up after his own meal.

 

There it was: her black notebook. But it wasn’t where she had left it; it was on the coffee table, not stuffed into the side of the couch. _A Dhia!_

 

Taking a deep breath, she tiptoed to the sitting room, praying she wouldn’t catch Ian’s attention, and gingerly lifted the book from the coffee table.

 

“Jenny?”

 

She glanced over her shoulder at Ian, who was now leaning against the doorframe, more relaxed than she had seen him in weeks past. He had crossed the entryway from the kitchen so quietly she hadn’t heard him.

 

“Before I forget, do ye have the credit card? I’ll need it for that fertilizer purchase. Was too distracted to grab it from ye earlier today. Need to go back to the store tomorrow.”

 

“Oh,” her voice came out a squeak. She swallowed. “Yes, let me get it for ye. Just one second.” As inconspicuously as she could, she tucked her black notebook into her armpit, set on returning it to her nightstand before getting the card from her office.

 

Unfortunately, she must squeeze by him to get up the stairs. His body blocked the door frame.

 

“Excuse me,” she said quietly, not looking at his face.

 

“What’s that?” he grinned, nodding at the notebook.

 

She glared at him. “I told ye, it’s nothing. It’s personal. Mine.”

 

His mouth twitched. “I ken that. What’s in it?” he asked, but she knew it was only a polite question to move the conversation along. He already knew the answer.

 

“Nothing for ye to worry about,” she snipped defensively.

 

“No? Are ye sure?” He gave her a meaningful look.

 

She stepped back. “Ye read it,” she said, her voice accusing.

 

He shrugged. “It fell open when ye got up. I saw my name, so I… took a wee keek.” He suddenly looked embarrassed, sheepish, shifting on his feet. “I know I shouldna have, but…I…I just wanted to see what ye were saying about me. I’m sorry.”

 

Jenny reddened, then jabbed a finger into his shoulder. “How dare ye, Ian Murray,” she declared, then moved to push past him.

 

He stopped her, holding her still by her arms. “Ye should know that what ye wrote is correct. I willna leave Lallybroch so long as ye’re here.” He stroked her arm once with his thumb, then let go.

 

“I didna write that,” she muttered, looking to the floor. Seeing their feet, squared off just like yesterday, her eyes stung with tears of embarrassment.

 

“Ye did. May I see it?” He held out his hand.

 

She sniffed, looked at him, into his long, good-natured face. He was being sincere. Slowly, she released the black notebook to him.

 

“Thank ye,” he murmured and held the book carefully. He thumbed through it, quickly finding the page as if he had studied it, as if it called to him just as it had to her the night before. The page fell open, flat in his hands.

 

“Right here,” he pointed to her early morning handwriting. “You are talking about the orchard, and about me,” he said thoughtfully, tilting the page closer to him, looking closely, perhaps avoiding her gaze. “Ye are worried nothing will go right, that ye’ll fail. That ye’ll be abandoned.”

 

She frowned but was not altogether surprised that Ian had so accurately interpreted her writing. “No.”

 

“No?”

 

She took a deep breath, inspecting his face. He waited. She shivered, but not from the cold, and her hand drifted up to where he had touched her. “I mean, yes. I am afraid of that.” She licked her lips. “Did ye read the rest?”

 

He nodded. “And what did ye mean by it?” He stepped forward.

 

She hesitated, but then, deciding to trust him, she relaxed a bit and chuckled dryly. “Well, I am worried about failing. That should be obvious. But…I’m more worried about succeeding.” She hesitated again.

 

“Aye?” he pressed.

 

“I mean…What would that mean? For me? For you? Would we be trapped here, forever?” She scoffed. “I dinna want to live here. And _you_ shouldna be tied to this place just because ye think ye owe my parents something.” She sighed. “In failure, there would be some freedom. In success…” she trailed off.

 

“Where do ye want to be instead?” Ian asked, surprising her.

 

She felt a little silly admitting it out loud, but wanted to be honest with him. “Oh. I—I want to go to Paris.”

 

“To Paris?” he repeated, raising his eyebrows with interest.

 

Encouraged, she gave a lively nod. “Yes. Paris.” She waved a hand over the notebook he held. “I want to be a writer. No’ someone who runs an orchard,” she said a little guiltily.

 

“Can ye not be both, then? Has to be one or the other?”

 

She scrutinized him. “How could I live in Paris _and_ run Lallybroch?”

 

“No’ that. Can’t ye write while yer here? Maybe set yerself up to visit Paris a few times a year? I would be happy to take some business of yer hands so you can prioritize yer writing. And I can manage for a week or two wi’out ye. That way, ye don’t have to stay up all hours of the night.” He gave her a small smile.

 

She lowered her head, suddenly aware of the bags under her eyes. “But what about you?” She spoke down to their feet. “Is this what ye want?” She glanced up then, pointedly taking in the old farmhouse, its creaky and scratched wooden floors, the old rugs; its outdated furnishings and drafty windows. “Don’t ye want more? More than this?”

 

Suddenly, his features came into focus for her, as if she were seeing him for the first time, even though she had known him almost her whole life. His eyes were deep set under a high brow, a dark brown. No—they were the color of the earth after rain, or the damp soil near a clear, peaceful loch; they swirled with copper, tinged with a navy blue at the outer edges. At Jenny’s words, the brown had melted, became molten, intense. Almost accidentally, she breathed him in. He smelled like sunscreen and sweat, maybe pollen, soap, and something that was uniquely Ian.

 

He was so close to her now. Had he stepped forward?

 

He opened his mouth to say something, then stilled, reconsidering. He leaned away, offering an apologetic smile. What was he apologizing for?

 

“Yes, Jen. I want more than this. I think.”

 

He handed her back her notebook, then returned to the kitchen across the hall.

 


	9. Sunlight

Jenny was exhausted. There was much to be done before the orchard’s opening day, and with every passing moment, it seemed like the workload only increased. To feel like she was helping more, Jenny began to leave the walls of her office to work directly with her staff, and as she did, the trees seemed to breathe life into her, revitalizing her, preparing her for the next day’s work.

 

 

She also spent more time in the kitchen, testing new recipes alongside Lallybroch’s head baker, Mrs. Crook. While her time pruning the trees and checking rodent traps in the orchard was fulfilling and exciting, the rhythm of experimentation and improvisation in the kitchen was thrilling in its own way. The kitchen was cheerful and bright, open and warm, energized by an undefinable fierceness. Her mother’s spirit.

 

 

So far, she had tested tarts and pies, turnovers and muffins, each to its own small batch success. The atmosphere in the farmhouse at Lallybroch was heavy with sweetness from baked apples, sugar, and spice. When her father had run the orchard, Lallybroch only produced typical cider and cake donuts. But Jenny had grown up with her mother’s wide variety of apple treats, all unique recipes perfected over the years. She wanted to recreate the magic she felt as a child when she bit into her mother’s apple tarts.

 

 

“Two cups of diced, peeled apples,” Jenny muttered to herself as she stood at the farmhouse kitchen’s counter, studying her mother’s recipe book for the day’s project. She thought about adding a little more cinnamon to this batch, wondered if it would be an improvement over yesterday.

 

 

The farmhouse kitchen was charmingly picturesque. Walls were painted a sunny yellow with light seafoam window cabinets, the counters checkered with blue, white, green tiles that climbed up into a matching backsplash. There was a simple white refrigerator, a white single sink with two faucets. But her parents had installed a dishwasher and upgraded the oven; these gleamed stainless steel in the daylight, a sharp contrast with the older appliances. The old with the new.

 

 

Moving the recipe book out of the way, Jenny placed the baking tools she would need in a neat line. She handled them carefully, imagining she could still feel the warmth of her mother’s fingers on the whisk, the lip of the plastic mixing bowl, the handle of a knife. She remembered her mother in the kitchen, herself a little girl standing on a chair, helping stir batter in a mixing bowl. She would dip her fingers in the sugary concoction and lick it away when she thought her mother wasn’t looking, feeling devilish and sneaky. She knew now that her mother would watch her from the corner of her eye, smiling warmly. Jenny touched her temple, feeling her mother’s quick kiss.

 

 

“Here are the apples Ian picked for you, dear,” Mrs. Crook said, appearing in the doorway with a cardboard box.

 

 

“Oh, wonderful.” Jenny moved to inspect them, immediately pleased upon seeing them up close. Even this early in the season, one of these apples fit delightfully in the palm of her hand, and she smiled to herself as she caught her reflection in a windowed cabinet. Holding the apple, her black hair down, the white shine of her pale complexion, she looked like something out of a storybook. _Snow White’s poison apple, maybe._ She chuckled to herself and brought it under her nose for a sniff. Ian proved that he knew how to pick Lallybroch apples that were just right for baking.

 

 

“Mrs. Crook, are there enough of these apples ready to make a batch of our baked donuts? I’d like to test our recipe before we begin mass producing it, to be sure it’s exactly right.”

 

 

“Of course,” Mrs. Crook nodded. “I’ll just check with Ian. I’d like to pick them myself once he shows me the trees that are ready. I’ll want to try them in the commercial kitchen, if ye don’t mind. Oven temperatures are temperamental.” She laughed dryly at her own joke and disappeared through the entryway, the screen door clattering shut behind her.

 

 

Jenny was at the sink, finishing washing her apples when she heard someone enter the kitchen. Expecting Mrs. Crook, she looked over her shoulder to find Ian standing in the doorway.

 

 

“Smells good,” he said emphatically.

 

 

Jenny rolled her eyes at him. “I havena made anything yet.” She turned away from the sink with a colander of dripping apples. “Finished for the day?”

 

 

“I can be,” Ian replied slowly.

 

 

Toweling the apples dry, she placed them in a line on the counter. She nodded toward the knife block and the clean apples. “Peel and dice these for me? Wash your hands first.”

 

 

“What are ye making?” He stepped into the room to do as she asked, brushing by her.

 

 

Grinning, she leaned toward him. “Salted caramel apple hand pies. My mam’s recipe.”

 

 

He raised his eyebrows with interest. “I dinna ken what a hand pie is, but it sounds delicious.”

 

 

Jenny snorted, then rubbed the back of her hand against her nose, wanting to rub away the ugly sound she had made. “It’s a wee pie ye eat like a biscuit.”

 

 

“Like I said: delicious.”

 

 

Ian peeled the apples over the sink as Jenny prepared the dough, first wiping down the counter then sprinkling it with flour to keep from sticking. She stirred her powdered ingredients in, folded in the cubed butter, concentrating on preparing something half-dough, half-puff pastry. Her hand pies needed to be crisp and flaky, but also hold together without a tin.

 

 

They worked next to each other in comfortable silence. Ian was deft with a knife, his slices musical on the wooden cutting board as the knife cut through the apples and slammed into the wood.

 

 

“Do ye read, Ian?” Jenny found herself asking, not looking at him, stirring the ingredients in her bowl.

 

 

His knife slowed briefly with his surprise. “Oh, uh. Yes. I do.”

 

 

“What do ye read?”

 

 

“Is this a test, Jenny?” He lifted the cutting board and dumped diced apples into a small bowl.

 

 

“No,” she replied slowly, adding in sour cream. “Would ye mind putting together the pie filling? Recipe’s just there.” She nodded at the open recipe book.

 

 

Ian was quiet as he read the recipe, and she watched him from under her lashes as he carefully measured the sugar, flour, cinnamon, lemon juice, and apples, whisking it all together. He looked at home in the farmhouse kitchen, his movements effortless and sure.

 

 

Jenny turned out the dough and began to knead it. “I willna let ye avoid my question.”

 

 

He faced her and grinned. “What if I told ye I like to read the same books you do?”

 

 

She scoffed, her hands sinking into the cool, sticky dough. “What do ye mean by that?”

 

 

“Romance novels, maybe?” he said, ribbing her.

 

 

She flushed as she remembered how he had teased her for her book on his return to Lallybroch. She kneaded the dough with a bit more effort and tested its stretch. “Ye dinna read romance.”

 

 

He chuckled. “If that’s what ye prefer to think, fine.” He set down the small bowl of apple filling, satisfied with the texture, then stood next to her and plunged his hands into the dough she was working. It fanned out pale gold between his tanned fingers as he gripped it.

 

 

“Och, Ian—!”

 

 

“Want some help?” He began to mimic her kneading movements, his forearm brushing against hers. He stood very close, and Jenny could feel the heat of his body from head to foot.

 

 

She felt rather odd as he stood near her, touching her, if only briefly. She was unable to locate or name the feeling, and she was anxious she would overwork the dough, but she did not pull away. Their knuckles occasionally grazed as they worked, leaving Jenny curious if the touch happened on accident or on purpose.

 

 

“I dinna read _only_ romance, ye ken,” Jenny said defensively.

 

 

He chuckled. “I ken that. What else do ye read, then?”

 

 

Jenny sighed, more than a little wistfully. “I read everything. Janet Fraser doesna discriminate with her book choices.” Her eyes narrowed a bit, feeling comfortable enough to tease him back. “We were talking about you, though.”

 

 

“Oh, I read everything I can get my hands on. _The Grapes of Wrath. The Remains of the Day._ Books about football, potatoes, dogs. Everything,” he said, nodding seriously, playfulness easing away into confidence. He continued cautiously. “After my accident, I was cranky, immobile, and verra bored. Reading was the only thing that would get me out of a funk.” He shrugged with one shoulder.

 

 

Their hands stilled. Withdrawing hers, Jenny rubbed her hands on her apron and reached for the rolling pin to flatten the dough for cutting. Ian pulled away, too, wiping sticky dough onto a kitchen towel before leaning against the corner of the counter.

 

 

“Do ye remember when Jamie took all those books to school? I think he borrowed a bunch from ye.” He spoke quietly.

 

 

“Oh, yes,” Jenny said, dusting the counter with flour once more. “Ye mean to tell me Jamie took those books to you? Oh—so _that’s_ how you had read my French book!”

 

 

He nodded, his cheeks flushed under his hat.

 

 

“Ye ken I would have loaned them to ye if I had known what was going on?” Jenny frowned.

 

 

His lips twitched, but he was serious. “Yes, Jenny. I know.” He gripped the counter behind him, then looked to his feet, his body still. After a moment, he spoke again, his voice low. “I am sorry for the secret.”

 

 

She shook her head. “Dinna be sorry, Ian.”

 

 

“But I am.” He pushed off the counter and stood at the sink. “I’ll never forgive myself for missing your Da’s funeral last spring. I’m sorry for that, too. I—I couldna bear to come home to Broch Mordha and Lallybroch and have everyone know something was wrong with me.”

 

 

Jenny dropped the rolling pin and came to him, leaning on the counter beside him. With a deep inhale, she placed her hand on his back, running her palm lightly in a circle.

 

 

“Ian,” she breathed. “I’ve made my peace with it.”

 

 

“But I should have come and not let you—or Jamie—be alone.”

 

 

“Maybe so. Of course, it would have been nice to have ye here. But then again it’s always nice to have ye home.” She gave him a small smile. “Dinna trouble yourself about it. I forgive ye.”

 

 

He smirked. “If ye say so.”

 

 

Jenny chuckled at him, her hand still on his back, her middle finger now tracing smaller circles into his shoulder blade. “If only all things were that easy.”

 

 

Suppressing her caution, she stepped towards him, slid her palm to his chest. His grey t-shirt was softer than she expected, and she studied her hand there. He smelled like fresh cut apples, sunscreen, sweat, and the spice of caramel apple pie filling. As if responding on instinct, he placed a hand on the small of her back, pulling her closer to him.

 

 

Her heart pounding in her ears, Jenny found herself unable to meet his gaze, instead, staring at her fingernails, his chin.

 

 

Ian leaned forward, pressed his forehead to hers. She gasped as his left hand came up to brush her cheekbone and sweep her hair behind her ear.

 

 

“Jen,” he breathed, her name awash in surprise, in gratitude.

 

 

Butterflies swirled in her stomach, rising into a colorful, fluttering cloud that made it hard to breathe.

 

 

The hand on her face curled around to her chin, lifted her face toward his.

 

 

For a long time, she had known it would come to this. Hadn’t she?

 

 

“Jenny?” a voice called from the entryway as Ian sprang back from her. “Have ye seen Ian—oh.”

 

 

Mrs. Crook appeared in the doorway, glancing between Ian and Jenny, both flushed and tense.

 

 

Jenny cleared her throat, nodded toward him. “He’s right here. We were just…talking—talking through opening day and what apple rows are best for the pick-your-own customers.” Jenny quickly busied herself with continuing to roll out dough. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ian adjust the bill of his cap.

 

 

“Uh-huh,” replied Mrs. Crook, unconvinced. “Well anyway, Ian, lad, could ye help me straighten something in the commercial kitchen? I think the door of my oven is broken. Willna shut right.”

 

 

Avoiding a glance at Jenny, Ian followed Mrs. Crook out of the kitchen, letting out a long, deep breath.

 

 

“Of course, Mrs. Crook. Show me the way.”


	10. Rain

The trees were drowning. There had been a landslide on a nearby munro, diverting excess rainwater to an old plot of trees that lay on the western edge of the orchard. Standing water filled the open, grassy area within the scattered grove, the reflection of a stormy sky and reaching branches interrupted by the ripple of raindrops. It was dark out, the slowly setting sun hidden behind a thick layer of clouds. Everything shone with a misleading grey light, as if it were early morning. 

 

 

This older cluster of trees didn’t quite fit in among the rest at Lallybroch, and if someone was unfamiliar with the history of the orchard, they might not consider these trees to be apple trees at all. Fraser legend held that these trees were planted before the 1930’s, preceding the onslaught of World War II. The Fraser family tree was the only older surviving plant.

 

 

These trees no longer bore fruit, no longer flowered. They had aged beyond that, veterans of a previous time. But they stood proud at Lallybroch, evidence of the generations of Frasers who had plucked apples from them, stood under their shadows, swung from their branches. These trees felt like Jenny’s extended family.

 

 

 

She stood among them, clad in black rainboots and the deep purple of her raincoat, morbidly assessing the damage. She knew they would show no visible sign of drowning yet, but she could feel suffocation creeping through the old branches. She glanced up at the canopy of dripping green leaves, thick droplets plunking down around her, running off the visor of her hood and into her eyes.

 

 

“Damn storms,” she muttered to herself, wiping a raindrop away from her forehead.

 

 

A voice called out to her. “Took the goats out to pasture.” 

 

 

Jenny turned to see Ian walking toward her, his brown work boots black with waterlog, his jeans soaked nearly to the knees from shepherding farm animals. His whole frame looked like it had been reflected through a dark lens, the rain casting a shade over his shoulders and hat.

 

 

He pointed to a dip in the uneven ground, where water pooled before it leisurely rippled down off the property. 

 

 

“Joseph and I will set up some pipes to drain the standing water out,” he continued. “We’ll also grab some shovels and dig a path for the water to follow.”

 

 

“We should just grab some buckets and scoop it all away,” Jenny said sarcastically, twisting her heel deep into the mud for emphasis. 

 

 

“Maybe the goats would help us with that,” Ian replied, letting out a long breath, “We’ll line them up and they can pass full buckets down a line.”

 

 

Joseph approached them on a small tractor with a back full of shovels and PVC pipes. Small headlights caught on raindrops and mist, its tires leaving deep tracks in the mud. He was an old man who had spent decades working at Lallybroch, but when he stopped the tractor, he swung down from the seat with ease. He was without a hood or umbrella, his grey hair black from the rain.

 

 

“Crook says there’s a call for ye inside, Ian,” Joseph said. “Where do ye want all this for now?”

 

 

Ian cast a wary look at the tractor’s tire tracks, cringing at the thought of more water trapped inside the soil, drowning the roots. He let out a long sigh.

 

 

“Thanks, Joseph. Could ye place those underneath that tree there?” Ian gestured to an apple tree on a little hill, where the soil was mostly dry. “A call for me, ye say? Who is it?” His hand absently brushed the pocket of his jeans, where Jenny knew he kept his personal cell phone. Whoever wanted him called the Lallybroch line, rather than reaching him directly. 

 

 

Joseph’s back was to them, gathering PVC pipe. “Some bloke from Mackenzie Farms. Or Lovat Ranch. I canna remember.”

 

  
Jenny’s eyebrows shot up. “Who was it?” she pressed, coming forward to help Joseph unload the tractor. “Ye sure they want Ian, not me?” She was waiting on a final sale document from Dougal for the produce she needed for cider, and she was growing concerned as he withheld it while opening day approached. She had heard almost nothing from him since he discussed wanting seven percent of the cider sales this year and found herself becoming more and more anxious as he waited to finalize the deal. 

 

 

Joseph shrugged. “Crook hollered about there being someone on the landline for Ian, ma’am. Wasna for you, I ken that much.” He dropped the white PVC pipe to the ground at the base of the tree, and Jenny did the same, arranging them in a neat pile that wouldn’t roll away.

 

 

Joseph turned to Ian. “They’re still on the line, last I knew. Better hop to and find out what they want.”

 

 

Ian nodded. “Fine. But do me a favor, Joseph—don’t drive that tractor on this part of the orchard anymore.”

 

 

“Ach. Shall I move it? Where shall I park it?”

 

 

“Leave it for now, we’ll take care of it when the rain clears.” Ian leaned into Jenny and spoke out of the corner of his mouth, placing his hand on Jenny’s elbow. “Come wi’ me?”

 

 

Acutely aware of his touch, she nodded. They sloshed through the mud and rain together, faces scrunched up against the occasional gust of wind. 

 

 

Over the past week, he had been finding excuses to touch her more often, and she was unsure if she’d ever get used to it. A hand on her shoulder, the small of her back, a brush of his fingers against hers when they walked side by side. Like now—she could swear she felt his fingers graze briefly against hers as he dropped his hand from her arm. 

 

 

Every touch reminded her of that time they almost kissed, made her wonder  _when_ he would try for it again,  _if_ he would try for it again. 

 

 

A post-it had been hung on the front door, now damp:  _call transferred to office._

 

 

Jenny and Ian wiped their boots on the “Fàilte” welcome mat, shook out their rain jackets and hung them carefully on hooks. Jenny gestured for Ian to take the stairs before she did, acknowledging that this was his call and he had invited her to eavesdrop. She watched him from behind as he climbed the stairs, a blush creeping to her cheeks.

 

 

In the office, Jenny sat in a guest seat and offered Ian the executive chair behind the desk. As Ian picked up the receiver to greet whoever was on the line, Jenny anxiously tapped a foot, fiddled with her hair. 

 

 

“Ah, Dougal,” Ian said with false cheer. “I thought it might be you calling. What do ye need?”

 

 

With an exhale, Jenny rose from her chair, wandered around the office, put her hands in her pockets. 

 

 

“Uh-huh, Lallybroch is doing great. Things are looking up this season.”

 

 

Her fingers frozen on the spine of a book on a cherry wood shelf, Jenny scowled over her shoulder at Ian, who waved away her concern. He had shed his hat on a hook in the entryway, and the ends of his hair were damp from rain. 

 

 

“Yes, there is a wee bit of flooding in the old orchard.”

 

 

Jenny withdrew the book from the shelf, clutched it. Pretended to read.  

 

 

“Och, Dougal, it’s nothing Lallybroch’s current operations canna handle. We’re diverting the water away, into the pasture nearby. I’ve got some temporary piping for it and have drawn out a plan to dig water troughs. Storms will clear off soon and the trees will be fine. May have a wee bit o’ water damage, but I’ll keep an eye on them.”

 

 

He fell silent, then, listening to the voice on the other line. Then he spoke, and his voice was less sure, but with an edge. “Yes. I have done that for Lallybroch. All at Jenny’s request, though. I can assure ye that. Jenny is the one in charge here.”

 

 

A pause.

 

 

“She kens what she is doing just fine, ye know.” He was defensive.

 

 

Another pause, this time much longer. With bated breath, Jenny listened, watching Ian’s reflection in the window overlooking the orchard. He was bent over the desk, as if listening in on a secret.

 

 

Then, an exclamation of surprise. “Ye canna be serious, man. I would never—” 

 

 

A short beat. 

 

 

“No.”

 

 

Another beat. 

 

 

A firm, repeated, “ _No_.” The phone connected with the receiver. 

 

 

Jenny whirled to face Ian. “What did he—”

 

 

“He offered me a job.” Ian rested his head in one hand, the other shooting up in disgust. He opened his mouth to say more, but nothing came.  
  


 

Jenny’s mouth fell open. “A  _job_?”

 

 

He nodded slowly.

 

 

“Well, why? What did he say?” She felt her impatience becoming intolerable, and her cheeks and neck flushed with agitation and insult. 

 

 

But then she remembered—Ian had said no. Twice. She shivered, chilled by the unbearable pressure on her for Lallybroch to succeed. It felt like there was always something going wrong, two problems created for every one she fixed.  

 

 

Ian shook his head. “Offered me more money to work with Mackenzie. I dinna ken how he found out how much I make here—”

 

 

Jenny cut him off. “I told Mrs. Fitz, when we were going over sales documents for the produce we bought. She must have told him or wrote it down somewhere he could see.”

 

 

Ian raised his eyebrows with interest, then shook his head. “Well, at any rate. He went on about how I’d have more responsibility and leadership roles – ‘less mucking about,’ as he so aptly put it.” 

 

 

_Mucking about._ Jenny couldn’t help but glance at the mud caked into his clothes, wondering if she was giving him the responsibility he deserved.

 

 

“There were also veiled threats toward you and Lallybroch,” Ian continued, “He mentioned something about me continuing to work with apple trees, if I’d like.”

 

 

Jenny’s mouth was suddenly dry, and she had trouble swallowing, words of apology and anger caught in her throat. 

 

 

“But none of that matters. I told him no. As ye heard.”

 

 

She grimaced, let the book she had been holding against her stomach fall to the windowsill, landing next to her father’s aloe plant. “Why did ye say no?”

 

 

“ _Why_?” The edge in his voice, once directed at her uncle, was now directed at her. “Ye think I would leave Lallybroch for money, Jenny?”

 

 

She turned away, looked out the window towards the flooded trees. If the old trees died from the flooding, a piece of Lallybroch history, of her family, would be lost. The guilt made her dizzy as she choked the thought that, under her watch, irreversible damage may have been done to the orchard.

 

 

At least it wouldn’t affect her profit margin, she considered, pushing back the shame she felt at her mind drifting to return on investment and yearly budgets. But could she manage if something happened to the fruit bearing trees? Did she even want to handle it?

 

 

She wasn’t ready for this. She didn’t feel ready. Yet she felt compelled to work the orchard, to run it, to pay back its creditors, to reestablish the reputation of Lallybroch in the Broch Mordha and surrounding Highland community. 

 

 

What did the option to leave even feel like? If she did leave, would she feel shame? Relief? Both?

 

 

She glanced then towards the Fraser family tree, sighing a quick prayer up to her parents. “No, I don’t think ye would. But would you leave it if ye didna feel ye had some debt to the place?” 

 

 

“Come again?” 

 

 

“If I sold it, and Dougal let ye continue here, and paid ye more money, and ye kent all would be well for the orchard, would ye still stay?” She spoke to the window, unable to look at him. 

 

 

She could see Ian’s face was now incredulous, grasping for words. “Ye’re…thinking of selling?”

 

 

“No. Yes. I don’t know.”

 

 

Her fingers drifted then to a pen on the bookshelf, and she toyed with it, conscious to avoid Ian’s gaze. They fell into silence as she picked it up, clicked it, doodled into her palm. The blue ink faded immediately upon meeting her skin. 

 

 

She still faced away from him and wouldn’t turn around, even as she heard him sigh with frustration. 

 

 

He approached her, and she felt his hands on her hips, turning her to face him. He kept his hands there, a feeling both new and familiar, comforting her. She avoided his gaze at first, but his patience won out, and she looked up at him. His brown eyes were warm, wide with understanding. 

 

 

She felt her heart begin to race, thumping against her throat and temples, reacting to his nearness. A glance at his throat, and she saw that his pulse skittered too. She wanted to step back, but he held her still. Her hands slowly travelled up his arms, feeling him, his sleeves still damp from raindrops, and came to rest on his shoulders. 

 

 

Ian drew her forward, lightly, giving her the option to turn away; she stepped toward him. 

 

 

“Jen,” he sighed. “A few weeks ago, ye asked me what I wanted.” 

 

 

He chuckled, moved a hand to rest on the small of her back, big and warm and soothing. His other hand came up from her hip to rest on the nape of her neck, his thumb caressing her cheek. 

 

 

 “I thought I knew,” he continued. “But I didn’t. Not really.” 

 

 

“So, ye thought about it, then?” Jenny urged him on. She pressed her hands into his shoulders, curled fingers into the hair at the base of his skull. His hair was so soft.

 

 

“Mmphm.” He paused, as if steadying himself, then brought her nearer to him in a close embrace. They stood, pressed together. 

 

 

“Dinna do that, ye sound like Jamie,” she teased, patting his back, trying to lighten the mood, bring them to a ground she was more comfortable standing on. 

 

 

“I dinna want to think about your brother right now, Janet,” he replied, a light smile playing about his lips. A seriousness flashed across his face then, made its home there. The hand on her cheek travelled into her black hair, tested the feel of it in his fingers, massaged the base of her scalp. She closed her eyes momentarily and sighed, feeling tension leave her body. Her fingers massaged circles into his shoulders and back, trying to return the favor, testing the new terrain.

 

 

They were quiet a moment, becoming acquainted with the feel of the other’s embrace. The feel of him seemed to absolve her from her duty to Lallybroch, lifting her to into a place where she wasn’t tethered to family or business obligation. Stress abated, pressure eased. 

 

 

“So, what do ye want, Ian?” Jenny whispered. 

 

 

He chuckled. “What I want—I like plants, and animals. My life willna be complete unless I am tending to something outside of myself. But I dinna need much at all. I am a simple person, who wants simple things, a simple life. My accident taught me that. Things change in an instant.” 

 

 

He swallowed, then continued, his voice low. “Realize what ye want, then ask them if they want ye back. Isna complicated.” 

 

 

His hand on her lower back had wandered up her spine, and she felt his fingers twist into the ends of her hair. He lightly jerked it down, forcing her head back to look up at him, her lips falling open. 

 

 

“God, woman,” he sighed. “How many times, and in how many ways, must I tell ye I will go where you go? That is what I want.”

 

 

He took a moment to steady his breathing. “Do ye want me, Jen?” The question reverberated deep within her, echoing a similar thought in her own mind. 

 

 

His eyes were molten, as she’d see them before. She swore brown was the most beautiful color she’d ever seen. 

 

 

She  _did_ want him. “Yes,” she said, resolute. 

 

 

Before he could bend down towards her, she stood up on her toes, threw her arms around his neck, pressed her mouth to his, her eyelids fluttering closed. 

 

 

They each inhaled the other, their spirits meeting in a brand new, and yet eagerly anticipated, space. Her body arced into the curve of his, pressing herself into him where she could. He felt lithe, sinewy, strong. Her lips parted for him, and her hands roamed all over him, his hands following her lead across her body. 

 

 

With each touch, the Ian she had known faded away and blossomed into something new. She ran fingers lightly over his ear: Ian, who had ridden bikes down dusty orchard lanes with her. She passed fingers along the edge of his belt: Ian, who had played tag with her among the trees. She trapped his tongue with her teeth, eliciting a breathy laugh: Ian, with whom she had spent countless sunburned summer days with. That Ian was rapidly eclipsed by the new Ian she held in her arms.

 

 

He pushed her back against the window, a hand on her breast. The windowsill jabbed into her and she broke away from him with a giggle.

 

 

“Sorry,” Ian chuckled, letting go of her. 

 

 

She licked her lips, leaning in to kiss him again. 

 

 

Much to her disappointment, he gave her only a chaste kiss and stepped back. “Sorry,” he muttered again. 

 

 

She stepped forward, deliberately hooking her fingers in his beltloops, bringing him back to her. “Don’t you dare apologize, Ian Murray.” 


	11. Field

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my own family legend claims that my great grandparents, who were married for 70 years  & childhood neighbors/friends, used to play on railroad tracks in their neighborhood. one time, my great grandma’s shoe got caught on the tracks, and great grandpa rescued her. (some iterations of this tale claim a train was coming down the tracks at the time, and grandpa got her shoe off just in the nick of time). great grandma once told me that this was the moment she knew she was in love with him. I’ve always wanted to write a fiction piece loosely based on that family legend, so here it is. 

_Much_ to Jenny’s annoyance, Ian had clammed up. It seemed one minute his presence was immediate, an emergency she must respond to. He had held her to him, a knee between her legs and his hands in her hair, his kisses earnest and excited, and then his face clouded over, his eyes cooled, and he retreated.

 

 

“Wait,” he had whispered, backing away, peeling her hands out from under the hem of his shirt, where they had wandered. She resisted his reversal, pulling him down to her again. Then, more firmly as he avoided her kiss, “ _Wait._ ”

 

 

_Wait?_

 

 

She let him go, and he disentangled himself. The absence left her feeling disheveled and scattered, like he had been holding her together and she might topple over without his support. She felt the world drop out from under her when she saw the look in his eyes. Uncertainty, tension, like it had all been a mistake or an impulse.

 

 

She returned him to the task of de-flooding the orchard, her fists clenched, cheeks flaming, unable to look at him. 

 

 

The change in his demeanor had happened so quickly, Jenny found herself doubting their encounter as she sat in her desk chair. 

 

 

She meant what she said. Had he? Would he take it back? 

 

 

She ran her hands through her hair, wanting to pull it out of her scalp, and let out a low groan. If she was being honest with herself, Ian had always meant more to her than she would admit. His tenderness a moment ago awakened flashes of childhood memory, sliding them into a new lens, a new filter, like the clouds had parted. Suddenly things fell into place. 

 

 

Once, when she was sixteen, her Da had taken the three of them, her, Ian, and Jamie, into Broch Mordha on an errand, promising lunch at the diner after. Brian was distracted with some big tractor purchase, and the unattended teenage trio had wandered aimlessly to the edge of town, kicking up rocks and throwing sticks at one another. There had been a set of railroad tracks, embedded in gravel, the occasional weed poking through the rock bed. 

 

 

Jenny had brought coins to lay along the tracks, knowing the noon train would be approaching soon and would crush them into an oblong shape. Ian and Jamie had placed their coins on opposite sides of the track, made bets about whose coin would be the most misshapen.

 

 

Always picky and more careful than the boys, Jenny examined the railroad, trying to figure out where she wanted her coin. 

 

 

“Jenny!” Ian called after her as she wandered down the tracks. “Put yours by mine.” 

 

 

“Okay!” She smiled at him and flicked her hair over her shoulder as she crossed the tracks to meet him. But then her ankle twisted, her shoe caught under a rail plank, and she fell to the ground. “Agh!” Needles of pain crept up her leg, and her knee burned sharp. 

 

 

Ian had rushed to her side while Jamie laughed, but Ian silenced him with a glare. “Go get your Da. Now.” 

 

 

Jamie obliged, and Ian knelt beside her, gingerly extracting her foot. He was soft and careful, trying to shift her as little as possible. As he examined her scraped knee, his thumb had stroked her leg in abstract comfort. “Yer bleeding,” he said, his eyebrows raised. 

 

 

Her knee was numb from the shock of the fall, but she replied, “Ye dolt, I already ken that.”

 

 

Ian’s hands trailed down to her ankle, then her foot, untying her shoelaces and removing the white sneaker. Careful, he rolled her sock down, and gave a tentative squeeze, his thumbs gentle when they pressed in. “Ankle is swelling. Can ye move it?”

 

 

Jenny bit her lip. “Not sure.” 

 

 

“Try.” He let go of her, rolled back on his heels to give her space. Jenny recalled how the sun had shined on his hair, how concern for her was illuminated in his eyes.

 

 

With a flinch and a grimace, she lifted her foot from the gravel, attempted to move it. “Seems I can, but barely.” 

 

 

He nodded, surveying her for further injury. “Can ye stand? Walk?”

 

 

“No, I don’t think so.” 

 

 

Suddenly, he stood and lifted her, cradled her in his arms so she was draped across him. Jenny was wearing shorts, and the abrupt removal from the ground made her realize how much the rocks had bit into her skin.

 

 

“Ian! Put me down now!” 

 

 

“Ye canna walk, Jen. I’ll carry ye, if ye dinna mind.” 

 

 

Ian held her securely, but Jenny was jittery nonetheless. He carried her back towards town, through the weeds and heather they had climbed through earlier. He ducked under a tree branch, and Jenny hid her face in his shoulder, her arms around his neck. She was startled by how nice he had smelled. In her experience, fifteen-year-old boys never smelled good, either too much cheap cologne or too little deodorant. But Ian just smelled like Ian, his closeness putting her at ease, making her forget about the pain of a sprained ankle. 

 

 

He had smelled the same to her today as he had on that day nearly ten years ago. Jenny exhaled and leaned back in her desk chair, staring blankly at the cold fireplace. 

 

 

And now he was asking her to wait? Wait for  _what_? 

 

 

Her phone buzzed, and she pulled it out. It was a message from Rupert. Jenny frowned as she opened it. What the hell could he want?

 

 

_Yo Jenny, what u doin 2night? Gonna go see a dope new band later. You should come with. ;)_

 

 

Her eyes darted over to the windowsill, remembering how the corner had stung when Ian had pressed her back against it. She grew pink, momentarily lost in memory and imagination. 

 

 

Rupert was asking her on a date. Was this something she should talk to Ian about? 

 

 

And then she relived his rapid withdrawal, her excitement cruelly snuffed out by his rejection. She felt herself harden, pursing her lips, clutching the armrests of the chair. Before she could change her mind, she typed a response back. 

 

 

_Ok. What time?_

Immediately, the bouncing dots from the other side bubbled up.  _Music at 8. Pick u up at 7?_

_Looking forward to it!!_ Disgusted by her response, she tossed the phone to the desk with a snort. Her hands tugged agitatedly at her hair, where she swore she could still feel Ian’s hands. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Orchard is draining nicely,” Ian said, popping his head into Jenny’s room later that evening. “I don’t think there will be much damage…” He trailed off, quickly becoming confused, his mouth falling slightly agape.

 

 

Jenny was leaning over her dresser, applying lipstick in the mirror. She wore a light blue dress, something she hoped brought out her eyes, and had tamed her waves into big, rolling curls, pinned behind the ears. It might be Rupert, but a date was a date, she told herself. 

 

 

Ian stumbled in his attempt to get words out. “What are ye---” 

 

 

“I’m going out,” she replied curtly, dropping her lipstick into her purse and zipping it shut. She draped the thin black shoulder strap over her shoulder. 

 

 

“Out?” 

 

 

“Yes. Out.” She wiped her palms brusquely on the pleated skirt of her dress, then turned and checked her side profile in the mirror.

 

 

“With who?” His voice was low and dark, his words deliberate. 

 

 

“Rupert,” she replied, a little too flippantly, plucking at the buttons on her dress. 

 

 

“Rupert? Yer going out wi’  _Rupert_? Don’t ye hate the man?”

 

 

She glared hard into his eyes. “Of course I do.”

 

 

“Then what are ye doing?”

 

 

She scowled at him. “What do ye mean, what am I doing?”

 

 

His eyes narrowed, so she scoffed, turning to scan the various toiletries on her dresser. Her hands roved over the assortment of items, eventually coming to rest on her black notebook, which she had spent the afternoon trying to write in. She quickly placed it inside her bag. 

 

 

“Dating a man ye dinna care about doesna sound like you.” 

 

 

“And how would you know?” 

 

 

At that, a car horn honked, Rupert announcing his arrival. Ian blinked at her. 

 

 

“Ye canna be serious, Janet.”

 

 

She swung past him without a word, using her forearm to brush him out of her way. He followed her down the stairs, easily keeping step behind her. 

 

 

Rupert honked again. 

 

 

“This is none of your business,” she said to him over her shoulder.

 

 

“None of my—he won’t even come to the door!” Ian cried, waving his arms toward the driveway when they landed in the foyer. 

 

 

“And what of it?” Jenny said, flashing him a hard glare over her shoulder. She placed her hand on the doorknob and paused, waiting for a response.

 

 

He came closer behind her and sighed. She felt his breath wisp past the tendrils of hair near her ear, tickling her. “After this afternoon, you’d really go out with him, then?” 

 

 

Holding the doorknob tight, Jenny snapped at him. “Rupert willna tell me to  _wait,_ I don’t think.”

 

 

Jenny felt Ian step back, and with a glance over her shoulder she saw him study her, his eyes glinting a dark, burnished color, but he said nothing. 

 

 

Rupert honked a third time, this time long and insistent. It rang with a thin sound between them. 

 

 

“Go then,” he said, his voice gruff with challenge. 

 

 

Jenny paused, her hand still on the doorknob. She didn’t want to go out with Rupert. She wanted Ian. But he said nothing, made no move to stop her.  _Fine,_ she thought. If he was going to make her  _wait_ , she wouldn’t make it easy for him. 

 

 

And so she opened the door. 

 

 

Ian reached out, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Wait,” he said, and the original meaning of the word melted away to reveal the new meaning of this one. She looked at his hand on her shoulder, a hand that had worked her orchard these past few months and held her, if only briefly. A hand that had withdrawn from her in unsaid apology. 

 

 

“Wait for what?” Jenny replied, her voice hard. It had stopped raining outside, and through the screen door Jenny could see the land illuminated by a green sunset from the storm, a silver haze cast about the ground where fog began to rise. She turned away from it to face Ian. 

 

 

“Damnit, Jen,” he muttered, his mouth open as if he wanted to say more. 

 

 

“Excuse me?” she said. Some hair had caught in her lipstick, and she peeled it from her lips, careful not to smear it. “Do you have something to say?”

 

 

“First ye kiss me until I canna see straight or breathe, and now you’re going out wi’ Rupert.” He sneered his friend’s name. “I come inside to tell ye the old orchard is taken care of, to find ye dressin’ like the man’ll whisk ye off to Paris in his private jet. Ye ken well enough Rupert’s hardly able to pay his own bills for how much he spends on drink.”

 

 

“Och, c’mon, I didna dress like that, that’s ridiculous.” 

 

 

Ian raised his eyebrows, giving her a pointed scan from head to toe. “Ye drive me crazy, Jen! It makes me want to—to—” he stammered. 

 

 

“To what?” she challenged him, trying to catch her breath. “What do you want to do?” 

 

 

Ian started to reach for her, but there was a knock on the door, startling both of them. Jenny turned, opening it halfway, and it swung between them. 

 

 

“Hi, Rupert.”

 

 

“Hi, Jenny,” Rupert said, eyebrows shooting up, “Damn, ye look good. Ready to go?” He stood on the small porch, the wooden screen door propped open with his body. “I’ve been honking for ye. Let’s go,” he added. 

 

 

“Yes, I know. But, um,” she stammered. She could feel Ian on the other side of the door, even though she couldn’t see him. She rushed on with her sentence, not in the least bit remorseful. “I actually don’ think I’ll be able to go out tonight. Something came up. Bye!” She shut the door in his face, locked the deadbolt. With a deep breath, she peered at Ian out of the corner of her eye. 

 

 

He smirked at her. “Well, then.” 

 

 

Jenny rolled her eyes. “Dinna get any ideas about yerself, I didn’t want to go out wi’ him, anyway.”

 

 

She went to go upstairs to her room but faltered. “Ian,” she said. “What did ye mean when ye stopped—stopped us this afternoon?”

 

 

His hands went into his pockets, and he shrugged. “I only meant we should talk about it before…” he trailed off, and even in the dim lighting in the foyer Jenny could see his blush. 

 

 

“Ah.” She cleared her throat, trying to find a way to anchor the airy feeling collecting in her chest. Such a stupid misunderstanding. Agreeing to a date with Rupert, overreacting and making a fool of herself. Ian tripping over his words, unable to say what he feels. Jenny felt tired, just wanted to go to bed, wait until tomorrow to figure out what to do next. 

 

 

Before she could dart away, however, Ian grabbed her wrist. “Wait,” he uttered. “Can ye promise me something?” 

 

 

Jenny blinked. “Okay.”

 

 

He exhaled, steadying himself. “I want ye to believe what I told you. I have known for years that I’ve…” He looked down, his thumb absently stroking the inside of her wrist. “Hmph,” he hummed softly. 

 

 

Jenny held her breath. Then he let go of her, reached up to his head, groping for his hat. But he wasn’t wearing it. Instead, he ran his fingers through his hair. 

  
  


“I didna mean to confuse you today. I just want to make sure we do this… right. Try not to doubt me as I figure this out.”

 

 

She let a breath out, gave a small smile. “Okay.” 

 

 

Then, experimentally, she tilted her head in invitation for a kiss. 

 

 

He accepted it by kissing her softly, experimenting in his own way. This was new, but now that it was here Jenny couldn’t imagine her life without it. 

 

 

He let her go, his lips faintly painted with the rouge color of her lipstick. “What are your plans for this evening?” he asked. It wasn’t an offer or a suggestion. He often asked her this after days spent working, an expression of interest about what she did in her free time, a reminder that he cared she did something for herself. 

 

 

Jenny patted her purse, where her notebook was hidden. “I’m going to write.” 


	12. Terra Firma

Jenny sat at her desk, poring over a map of Lallybroch and several file folders of vendor meeting notes, to-be-signed contracts, and budget sheets. A single lamp glowed cheerfully on the desk, illuminating the office, and she squinted at the paperwork in fierce concentration, despite the growing sting of weariness.

 

 

She had to make sure everything was in order for when the orchard opened to the public. Thanks to Ian, the old orchard was recovering from the flooding, with only a couple trees now being monitored for water damage.

 

 

Of course, with that fire put out, others flared up in its place. Lallybroch Orchards was short staffed, and Jenny needed to hold interviews once she sorted through the stack of resumes next to her. She avoided the pile, hating the tediousness of meeting new people and exchanging mundane pleasantries. As she sat there, intently reviewing the rough plans for opening day, the pile somehow loomed larger and larger in her peripheral. There were always more responsibilities, more tasks, more chores, more decisions to make. Jenny rubbed a hand against her forehead. Lallybroch’s perpetual state of crisis never seemed to end.

 

 

Adso lay in a curled ball ontop of the desk, her chubby, furry body spread across Jenny’s computer keyboard and small yellow notepad. Jenny reached up to scratch her ear, but the cat quickly picked up its head and looked with wide eyes to the door, ears perked.

 

 

Following the cat’s gaze, Jenny saw Ian in the doorway.

 

 

“Hey,” he said, carefully holding two glasses of cider. “Cider’s ready for opening day.”

 

 

Jenny frowned, jerking her head at the clock nearby. “Cider at two in the morning?”

 

 

Ian smirked. “Why not?”

 

 

“By all means, then,” Jenny replied, pretending to return to her work. Ian placed a glass in front of her, a droplet spilling onto the desk, dampening the corner of the map she inspected. Adso, deciding Ian posed no threat, settled back into sleep.

 

 

Grasping the glass, Jenny swiped her thumb to catch a bead of cider that trickled down. She licked the liquid off her thumb and was surprised by the flavor. “Oh, ginger cider.”

 

 

He nodded, settling into a chair across from her. “Thought ye might like it. Cheers.”

 

 

They clinked glasses, each taking a sip. The single lamp cast his features into pleasant relief, as if it were candlelight. He looked handsome, but tired.

 

 

“What are ye doing up?” Jenny asked.

 

 

“I could ask the same of you,” Ian replied, giving her a knowing look. “Have ye been sleeping at all? I feel like I always hear ye banging around the house, like some sort of poltergeist.”

 

 

“Regular people would just say ‘ghost,’ ye know.”

 

 

He smiled. “Probably. But you—ye’re a poltergeist. No’ a ghost.”

 

 

“What’s the difference between a ghost and a poltergeist?”

 

 

Ian considered this a moment, then leaned forward. “Ghosts are visions. Dead people, ken, or visitors. Poltergeists, though. They’re a nuisance. Mischievous. Noisy. Often up to no good.”

 

 

Jenny couldn’t keep from laughing. “Ye think I am up to no good and mischievous?”

 

 

“Sometimes. But mostly—ye’re just noisy. If yer up, I’m up.” He settled back in his chair, considered her carefully. “Do ye need help with anything? I ken you’re working on orchard business.”

 

 

“Oh.” She looked down at themapshe was working on, a blueprint for opening day at the orchard. She scanned the sticky notes scattered across the edges, covered in the jagged blue scratches of her hasty handwriting. “No, I’ve got it.”

 

 

“How about some company while ye work, then? I’ll read something.” He moved to get out of the chair but waited for her nod.

 

 

Her lips curved into a small, appreciative grin as she watched him peruse the bookshelves. He looked comfortable in this room, as if he could spend every night keeping her company when she couldn’t sleep.  She blinked hard, forced herself to return to her work.

 

 

Once he selected a book, Ian settled easily on the brown leather sofa, flicking on the lamp near him, and for a moment, there was no sound except for the ticking of the clock on the mantle. Jenny peered at him from under her lashes. He looked cozily nestled against the couch cushions, still dressed in his work clothes from the day. They each sat in their own circle of light. Ian turned a page.

 

 

“Do I really keep ye up at night?” she asked, twisting her pen in her hands. She frowned at him.

 

 

Ian didn’t look up. “Yes, most times. But dinna apologize for it, it’s no trouble.”

 

 

Jenny contemplated this, imagining him awake in bed while she floated aimlessly around the farmhouse at night, something she did more and more as opening day approached. Sometimes, she wrote short poems or plot ideas in her black notebook, but more and more often she worked on orchard business. It was all quiet work. There was no way she’d been _that_ noisy.

 

 

Jenny rolled her eyes, then settled in to focus once again. She was fairly tired, so she resolved to at least put together yet another to-do list for opening day preparations.

 

 

_Talk to printer about logo on cider cans. Order pick-your-own apple bags. Check commercial kitchen inventory—cinnamon, sugar, flour, molasses. Arrange floral delivery._

 

 

Jenny frowned, scratched that last bit out.

 

 

_Talk to florist (order mums?). Arrange delivery._

 

 

She bit the end of her pen. Isobel might help with flowers; she tended to have an eye for flora. Jenny jotted Isobel’s name into the corner of a sticky note with a reminder to call her friend tomorrow.

 

 

“Janet,” Ian said, interrupting her train of thought. “I wanted to talk to ye, if ye dinna mind.”

 

 

Her pen froze, suspended above the paper, and she gradually lifted her face to meet his from across the room. He was cooler, reserved. What would he want to talk about?

 

 

_Oh god._ Jenny pressed the back of her hand to her lips and shifted uneasily, waiting. 

 

 

“Are ye really thinking of selling Lallybroch to Mackenzie?”

 

 

_Oh._ She let out a breath. “I’m no’ certain,” she replied honestly.

 

 

“What’s got ye uncertain?”

 

 

She let out an awkward chuckle, the pen falling from her hand. “Everything.”

 

 

“Hmph.” Ian frowned, staring at her intently. “Well, if ye were to pick one thing?”  

 

 

Jenny shook her head. “Tch. I canna choose one thing,” she snapped. “My reason changes all the time. Sometimes my employees annoy me, like now.”

 

 

“Is it Paris?” he said quickly, knowingly.

 

 

Her heart thumped. “Wow, what’s got ye thinking that?”  She felt skittish, wary, her hands coming up to plait a lock of her loose hair. Adso shifted positions in her sleep, spreading herself out across more of the desk’s clutter, unperturbed.

 

 

“Well, that’s what ye said once. That Lallybroch was getting in the way of living in Paris.”

 

 

She scowled at him, feeling her heartbeat quicken with adrenaline. “And?”

 

 

“And,” Ian continued, looking exasperated, “Have ye given any thought to me takingon more responsibility so ye could live there part time?”

 

 

_Ha!_ She scoffed, snorted, making sure to let him know his suggestion was so ridiculous she couldn’t even find the words.

 

 

“Have ye thought about working remotely, then? We could arrange that, too. Everything ye’redoing now,” he paused to wave at the desk, “ye could do in your own place in France.” He regarded her thoughtfully, yet she said nothing.

 

 

“Well?” he pressed, goading her.

 

 

She let out a long sigh. “No, Ian, I havena thought about that.”

 

 

“And why not?”

 

 

“Ye dolt, because that would be impossible.”

 

 

“Impossible?” he repeated, prodding at her, trying to unlock some response, some emotion previously hidden away.

 

 

She narrowed her eyes at him. “My place is at Lallybroch.”

 

 

“Not if ye hate it, though. Ye shouldna be anywhere ye dinna want to be.”

 

 

“I dinna _hate_ it!” Jenny cried, her eyes wide and furious, staring back at him.

 

 

Ian paused for a moment, thoughtfully considering what to say next. “But ye don’t like it,” he said softly.

 

 

God, he was vexing. She grasped the edge of her desk, steadying herself. “My place is here.”

 

 

“Doesna have to be.”

 

 

“ _Ian._ ”

 

 

“Jen,” he said calmly, taking a deep breath before saying what she knew was coming. “Why does it have to be all or nothing? Why can’t ye have Paris _and_ Lallybroch? Ye shouldna have to sacrifice anything ye _really_ want. If ye want Paris, I want ye to have it. And I want ye to know I would care for Lallybroch _for_ you.”

 

As he spoke, his voice grew quieter. “Ye wouldna have to worry about anything here. Ye could still work the orchard when ye’d want, run the business when ye’d want. But I’d be here full-time, so you may write in Paris as much or as little as ye’d like. Ye could come and go. Have freedom. Think of me as… someone who can guard yer weak side, maybe. Let me do that for ye.”

 

 

Jenny clenched her jaw, caught between a desire to agree, a desire to say no, and something else entirely. She thought back to her trip to Paris with her mother and ran a finger around the lip of her cider glass, now nearly empty. That trip was the first time that she had ever had espresso, and the caffeine buzz had left her breathless and humming as she strolled cobblestone streets and perused storefronts. The alcohol of Lallybroch cider reminded her of that pleasant buzz.

 

 

Ian sat patiently, watching her think, one leg folded over the knee of the other. He ran his hand down his denim pant leg, his face careful, his brown eyes warm and comforting.

 

 

“What was it like for you, when ye first lost your leg?” Jenny asked, her words slow and deliberate.

 

 

Ian froze for a moment. “It was… difficult. I willna lie. Like I was a stranger to myself, or that I had a stranger’s body. Until I got used to the prosthesis, I was miserable. Didna feel like a man. Sometimes, I still don’t.” He swiped a knuckle across his mouth, his eyes sliding past her face to a spot on the wall behind her. “I felt…displaced. Like a clone of my old self that didn’t duplicate correctly.” He laughed humorlessly at his, then his face grew somber.

 

 

“So, what did ye do?” Jenny pressed.

 

 

“What do ye mean?”

 

 

She prodded at him, knowing he was stalling. “What did ye do about that? Feeling displaced?”

 

 

His brow furrowed. “I, uh,” he coughed awkwardly, then picked up again, meeting her gaze. “I came here,” he murmured.

 

 

Jenny felt the room tilt, felt her blush fade away as she processed what he had said. _When he felt rootless, he came here._ A wayward thought pressed her to ask him why, but she shook her head in dismissal. She was pretty sure she already knew the answer if he reciprocated her feelings.

 

 

Instead of questioning him, she spoke softly. “I’m glad ye came back to Lallybroch, Ian.”

 

 

He let out a breath, then smiled warmly at her. “Me, too.”

 

 

She smiled back, and the tense, cautious moment evaporated. “I would never actually sell the orchard, ye ken.”

 

 

“Oh yeah, why’s that?”

 

 

“Well,” she began, not sure how to say what she wanted to. “Did ye ken Dougal called ye a cripple?”

 

 

“No.” Ian barked out a laugh. “But it doesna surprise me. When did he say that?”

 

 

Jenny moved across the room, took a seat next to him on the couch. “He called ye that when he told me it was a bad idea to hire ye, back when he came to test the cider flavor. Funny though,” she said, wrinkling her nose and shaking out her hair, “Because later he offered ye a job.”

 

 

He reached out to catch a lock of her black hair, tangling it in his fingers. Her heart skipped a beat, how she loved the way he touched her hair.

 

 

“ _Mo nighean dubh,_ ” he whispered, barely audible. “Dougal only offered me a job to get under yer skin, ken? He doesna really want me. Only wanted to poach me. Or turn me against ye.”

 

 

“Didna work, I’d say. Quite the opposite.” Perhaps Jenny was a lightweight—she felt woozy from one cider with Ian so near.

 

 

“Hm. Quite.”

 

 

Unhurried, Jenny leaned toward him, and he to her. She nudged her nose against his, felt his hand weaving through her hair. Grasping his face in her hands, feeling the strong corners of his jaw, she pressed her mouth to his, gently. She coaxed his open, and he relaxed into her, his lips wandering to her cheek, her neck, her earlobe. She gasped, ran a hand down his side, her fingertips grazing his ribs, before traveling back up again, running through his hair, tracing his eyebrows with her thumbs. She brought his mouth to hers, sucking his bottom lip, lightly running her tongue across it. Quietly, she shifted to open her legs, letting him between. Ian pressed her back against the couch, and settling himself on top of her, his weight comforting and meaningful. 

 

 

She kissed him, again and again, she didn’t think she could stop even if she wanted to, her fingers rucking up the hem of his shirt, tugging on his belt. He pressed his body more firmly against hers in response, and she let out a breathy giggle.

 

 

He pulled away, his lips hovering just above her. “Something funny?”

 

 

“No,” she sighed, squirming against him.

 

 

She tried to pull him down to her again, began undoing his belt, but he resisted, a playful smile onhis lips, his eyes hooded and dark. She waited, nerves fizzing.

 

 

“No?” He moved against her again, and she squealed in laughter, which he swallowed in a smiling kiss.

 

 

“Okay,” she said,“Maybe it _is_ a little funny.”

 

 

Ian’s hands had traveled downwards to press into her hips, his fingers gripping her tight. His face pressed into her neck, he murmured, “It is?” His breath was hot, his weight heavy.

 

 

She moved contentedly against him, “No’ _that_ ,” she confessed, “just… this, this whole thing. Isn’t this a little funny, when you think about it? I mean, how long have we known each other?”

 

 

“Mmm,” he hummed on her collarbone, causing her to shiver. “Forever, probably.”

 

 

“No’ forever. Forever for _you_ , maybe,” she teased, luxuriating in their closeness. “I had a whole year wi’out you, ken? Being the older one, and all.”

 

 

He stilled, only to break into laughter, completely collapsing on top of her. “Och, Jen, you’re so—this is—I just lo—”He froze then, his body taut with embarrassment and hesitation, and she felt him begin to slip away.

 

 

Jenny had frozen, too, but then cupped his face, knowing what hovered beyond. _Not yet._ “Shh.” She touched her lips to his, soft and tentative, wrappingher arms tight around his neck, kissing him fervently.

 

 

He responded, however hesitant.

 

 

Jenny huffed and reached for the hand he had left quiet on her hip,bringing it up to her breast. She arched against him, a silent entreaty.

 

 

He answered, his thumb swiping across the hard nipple under her shirt, her thin bra. She hummed into his mouth. _Yes._ Accepting the invitation, he chuckled, his satisfaction a soft exhale against her cheek.

 

 

Like static electricity, she clung to him, reflecting his movements, touches cascading in ripples across clothing, under clothing. Jenny undid his belt buckle, Ian’s hands wandered inside her shirt. They were both breathless and jittery, in anxious anticipation of where they were going next.

 

 

Then, Jenny’s phone buzzed in her back pocket.

 

 

“Ian,” she breathed.

 

 

“Hm?” he hummed against her navel, having worked his way downwards and her shirt upwards. He flicked his tongue against her skin.

 

 

“Ian!” she giggled. “I have to get that. Who calls this late? Could be serious _._ ” She rolled out from under him, adjusting her clothing as she stood.

 

 

Nearly 3am. Who would be calling her now? Letting out a deep exhale, closing his eyes, Ian rolled to his back on the couch.

 

 

“Oh god. It’s Jamie. He’s FaceTiming me,” she announced, swallowing hard.

 

 

She coughed to clear her throat, feeling doused in cold water. She angled the phone screen away from Ian lounging in the background as she answered it, hoping Jamie didn’t see him—them. She combed a hand through her hair, trying to fix the incriminating tangle.

 

 

“What do ye need?” Jenny barked. In the corner window she looked flushed, agitated—like she had been interrupted doing exactly what she _had_ been doing.

 

 

Jamie laughed. “Well, I was hoping to return the favor of a phone call in the middle of the night like you gave me several weeks ago. A surprise, ye ken. Wake ye up. Although…” he trailed off, moving his head as if trying to peek around the room. “Ye’re in Da’s office?”

 

 

“Yes,” she snapped.

 

 

“Mmphm,” went Jamie, making that noise he always makes. “What are ye doing in there?”

 

 

Jenny fumed, pointedly looking into her phone. Ian buckled his belt and sat up, rested his head on the arm of the couch, watching her carefully.

 

 

“Nothing. I mean—I’m working.”

 

 

Jamie laughed. “On what, Jen? Ye look like—”

 

 

“If ye just called to harass me, brother, I will hang up on ye right now, I dinna care.”

 

 

“Och,” Jamie grimaced. “I did call to harass you, because I ken it’s the middle of the night in Scotland, although it looks like ye are already awake, so my prank doesna matter. But I did want to talk with ye. I miss ye. What’s new, Jenny? Anything?”

 

 

Too quickly, Jenny replied, “Nothing, nothing new at all.”

 

 

In her peripheral, she could vaguely see Ian reacting to her lie. Anxious, she couldn’t tell if he was hurt, amused, angry.

 

 

Jamie laughed. “Well, whatever it is, ye’ll tell me eventually. If Ian’s harassing you, though, tell him I’ll kick his arse. I’ll teach him to leave my big sis alone. How is he doing, by the way? I havena heard from him.”

 

 

Ian cleared his throat, nodding at the phone. She turned away, turning the phone away with her. But Jamie must have heard Ian, because he grinned wide, his expression expectant. “Jenny! It’s 3am, isn’t it? I didna know ye take booty calls. All the way at the farmhouse, too, aye? Who comes that far out for wee Jenny?”

 

 

“There’s no one here, Jamie. It’s only Adso, up to no good,” she replied as flatly as she could, her expression fragile in its blankness.

 

 

The cat still slept soundly, quietly, on her desk.

 

 

“Och, ye _do_ have someone there! Dinna lie to me, Jenny. Lemme meet the lucky chap, see if he’s worthy of my sister—”

 

She hung up.  _Call ended._

 


	13. Petal

 

It was warm, dry, and breezy, a gorgeous late summer’s day. The air smelled of food truck grease and fresh fish on ice at the fishmonger’s stall where Jenny and Ian strolled through an outside market in Cranesmuir. 

 

Cranesmuir was a bustling city near Mackenzie Farms, where the buildings were narrow, brightly colored, and closely built together, as if the architect had click-and-dragged the same house’s image up and down city streets. The brightly painted homes were adorned with flower boxes on second story window sills, a fluttering blend of purple, red, and yellow in the wind. 

 

Jenny contacted Isobel last week to discuss floral arrangements for the orchard’s opening. She worked for a florist in Cranesmuir, Hannah, who agreed to a substantial discount for Lallybroch’s purchase, based on the connection between friends and the support of local business. Work at the orchard had been tiring and isolating, so when Isobel suggested brunch to catch up, Jenny heartily accepted, inviting Ian along. 

 

Jenny craned her neck, attempting to catch a glimpse of the flowers above. She lost her footing on the uneven brick of the sidewalk, and Ian’s hands caught her at the waist to keep her upright. 

 

“Whoa,” he said, dropping his hands away. “You okay?”

 

She ran her fingers lightly down his arm, enjoying the feel of smooth skin and muscle, coming to interlock her fingers with his. She smiled at him, nodding, and he stood a little taller.  _Yes_ , she thought. She was okay. 

 

This was how it was between them now, constant excuses to make contact. They volleyed improvised, affectionate touches back and forth, each one upping the ante of the intimate, the casual, the exploratory, the routine. 

 

When Ian had driven them into town, he had placed his hand on her thigh, occasionally squeezing or caressing her leg in sync with their friendly conversation. At one point, she had rested her hand over his, running a finger in circles around his knuckles, as if memorizing his hand. She could still feel his touch there, and on her waist from a moment before, a comforting light that faded slowly.

 

As Ian stepped forward to lead them through a crowd on the way to the restaurant, Jenny couldn’t help but look at him. He had shaved, and his clothes were less dusty than usual. And yet, he was firmly anchored to his usual look. He wore his plaid shirt rolled up to the elbow, unbuttoned, exposing a plain t-shirt. He had on his baseball cap, of course, and his brown hair curled pleasantly over the collar at the back of his neck. Recognizable, reliable, sturdy Ian.

 

This was the first time they had been away from Lallybroch since they had crossed the line between friends and something more, Jenny reflected as she felt Ian’s thumb trace the inside of her palm. They had tumbled into this, so easily, as if it were meant to be. Any nerves she felt were borne of excitement or thrill, not of hesitancy or retreat. Whatever this was, she didn’t want to mess it up. 

 

Jenny was anxious to leave the orchard behind for the day, to get out from under the prying eyes of Mrs. Crook, who she suspected had caught on to something between them. And so, she invited Ian to come to Cranesmuir with her, under the pretense that he was needed at this meeting. Truth be told, he wasn’t. She was ready to place the flower order, and Isobel’s invitation to lunch was about swapping gossip rather than discussing business. Jenny wanted a day with Ian away from home. She sensed that he wanted that, too. 

 

Pleased by their little ruse, she reached to grip the back pocket of his jeans as he led her through the crowd, causing him to look back at her with surprise. She leaned into him, grinning wide, feeling giddy. 

 

They finally reached where they were meeting Isobel, a pastel blue building adorned with yellow trim, shorter than the buildings around it. Jenny pulled away from Ian to open the door, and his hand dropped to grab her ass. She glanced at him, and he smirked at her, giving her a decided pat.

 

Jenny turned to him, popping her dimples as she grinned. “A little harder next time,” she teased, leaning into him. 

 

Ian’s eyebrows lifted in response, and he blinked at her before laughing out loud. 

 

The interior of the restaurant lived up to the cheery expectation on the outside. Blue and lavender walls, yellow trim continued, billowy white lace curtains. There were clatters of dishware and sizzles from the kitchen, conversations from other tables filling the cheerful ambiance with a hum. Wait staff bustled to and fro, delivering food and clearing dishware from abandoned tables. 

 

“We’re here for Dunsany,” Jenny said, turning to the greeter. 

 

The woman at the welcome podium referred to her clipboard, glancing up and down the list of waiting patrons. “Yes, you’re a bit early. Your table will be ready in a few minutes if you wouldn’t mind waiting.”

 

Jenny and Ian moved off to the side. 

 

“Kiss me,” Ian said, his eyes intense. 

 

He hardly had the words out before she caught his face in her hands and brought her mouth to his, kissing him perhaps a little too enthusiastically in public.

 

Good-natured, he peeled her off of him, giving her a hug and pressing a quick peck to her neck before pulling away. His expression was satisfied, patient. They stood side by side, backs against the wall, exchanging grins and stealing touches, as if love-struck teenagers on a first date. 

 

But it wasn’t a date. A few moments later, John tugged Isobel through the door of the restaurant, and Jenny inhaled a breath. She didn’t know John was going to be there. It was fine, she thought, she liked John, but it felt a little different now, brunch with another couple.

 

She shot a quick glance at Ian, who nodded in understanding. They would each be on their best behavior in front of their friends, an agreement they made on the way into Cranesmuir. 

 

“Jenny!” 

 

With a smile, Jenny enveloped Isobel in a hug. “So good to see you. It’s been a while.”

 

* * *

 

Jenny ordered strawberry crêpes and picked up her mug. She blew softly into the steam, watching ripples form on the surface of her tea. 

 

She sat next to Ian, with Isobel and John across the table. The more she thought about it, the more she saw John and Isobel laughing, touching, grinning at each other, she felt happier about brunch with another couple. 

 

She poured milk into her tea to cool it down and listened to John and Ian go on about a recent football game. Isobel participated in the conversation too, leaving Jenny to her thoughts. She sipped from her mug and openly admired Ian. She visually traced the way the sunlight outlined his features, how grand it was when he laughed and smiled and argued. 

 

Discreetly, Jenny pressed her thigh against his under the table, aligning them knee to hip. It was his right leg, the one with the prosthetic. He didn’t flinch or move away, instead leaning back in his seat and absently running a palm down her thigh in acknowledgment. 

 

She gave what she thought was a secret grin to her mug but caught a questioning glance from Isobel. Jenny shrugged back, noncommittally. Ian had already pulled his hand away, and Jenny shifted away from him as carefully as she could. She spoke, interrupting the men, trying to cover her embarrassment, “Hey, Ian, did ye tell John and Isobel what we’ve been up to at Lallybroch?”

 

Ian turned to her, unbothered by the interruption. “The cider, ye mean?” 

 

Jenny gave him a knowing look. 

 

“Right, Jen’s really expanded the cider Lallybroch makes--” Ian began.

 

“You helped!” she quipped.

 

He shook his head. “I didna have anything to do with expanding cider production! That’s all you. Anyway, it’s delicious, and it’ll go on sale when Lallybroch opens next week. I mean, I’m sure it’ll do as well as about anything Jen sets her mind to.” 

 

He had squeezed her forearm, making her blush.  

 

“I believe you. Jenny’s a powerhouse when she wants to be,” John said, looking between the two of them. 

 

“There’s flavored cider now, too,” Ian continued, much to Jenny’s embarrassment. 

 

“It’s not just me--” Jenny sputtered.

 

He ignored her and pressed on. “Not only did she flavor them, but she named them, too. She’s very clever.  _Fraser Frais_ e--”

 

“Tch! By Christ, Ian,” she stammered, trying to stop him, feeling a furious flush across her chest, ears, and neck. 

 

“Sounds delicious,” cut in Isobel, goading Ian and Jenny with a nod. 

 

“Ach, it’s no’ really that big of a deal,” said Jenny, shrugging, her heart racing from the onslaught of compliments and praise. “Ian’s a drunk, ye canna take his opinion seriously on anything alcoholic,” she continued, much to the amusement of the rest of the table. 

 

“ _Me_ , a drunk?” Ian asked, eyebrows raised. 

 

“If anyone has a weak opinion on alcohol it would be  _you_ , Jenny. I seem to recall one night you went home with Ian,” Isobel teased, much to Jenny’s horror. 

 

“That’s not-- I didna--” she stuttered, squirming in her seat, feeling herself blush even more now. The table laughed again. 

 

“You were hanging off him like a barnacle,” John said between laughs.

 

“It was incredible you could even move,” Isobel said to Ian, “considering how she clung to you.”

 

“It certainly looked like--” John began. 

 

“Oh, aye,” Ian interjected, glancing over at Jenny, “heavy as a dead weight, maybe, but very much alive.” Ian winked at Jenny, causing her to nudge his knee with her own.  

 

Jenny picked a grape out of the sample fruit bowl and threw it at him. He caught it cleanly and popped it into his mouth. He swayed towards her and she pushed him away at the shoulder.

 

She huffed and shook her head. “Well, at any rate, we do have a lot of cider at the orchard. I don’t drink much of it,  _I promise_ , whatever ye may think of me. Only enough to get a taste.”

 

“So, you have a strawberry one, then, if one is named  _Fraser Fraise_?” Isobel asked politely, though smirking. 

 

“Yes, and others like ginger and blueberry. We don’t have much, however, only a small batch of each. We’ve expanded but we’re no’ industrial or anything,” she responded. 

 

“It’s verra good. I expect Lallybroch will make a killing from it,” Ian said seriously. 

 

Jenny patted his arm and sighed, “Maybe.”

 

“If Dougal stops harassing ye, that is,” he mumbled. Ian sat back and ran a finger around the rim of his water glass. 

 

“Dougal’s harassing you?” John asked, concern creasing his forehead as Isobel leaned in. 

 

“It’s no’  _so_ bad,” Jenny said as she rolled her eyes. 

 

“Not so bad,” Ian muttered, repeating her.

 

She pressed on, waving a hand in dismissal and shooting him a glare. “ _No_. We’ve got it handled.”

 

Ian smirked and returned to his coffee, conversation turning to other topics as Jenny remained close-lipped about the goings on between Lallybroch and Mackenzie Farms. 

 

Ian had become increasingly involved and agitated over Dougal’s escalating manipulation of Jenny to abandon the orchard and sell. On the way into town they had discussed the topic at length, extensively analyzing whatever Dougal’s incentive might be to up his offer. It was a suspiciously large sum of money to purchase what he repeatedly called a failing business, and Ian -- and Jenny -- suspected her estranged grandfather at Lovat Ranch was involved. She had been brooding over the sales document for a week now, intimidated and aghast by the proposition. 

 

Sometimes, though, she envisioned the money as a ticket to Paris, seeing clearly the ornate buildings and beautifully lit Eiffel Tower, but this vision often left her shivering with chill - knowing that she just couldn’t make it true. Thoughts of Paris, of signing Dougal’s agreement and leaving the orchard forever, often shifted to thoughts of her apple trees, the scratching of their bark, the rustling of their leaves, red in a sea of rippling green. The restaurant faded away now, and she was in the trees, the sun warm and the dirt in her socks gritty. She breathed deep. 

 

“Earth to Jen?” Ian waved a hand in front of her face, and she blinked. 

 

“Sorry,” she mumbled as a server placed a plate of steaming crêpes in front of her. She picked up a fork and knife, and Isobel shifted in her seat. 

 

Isobel spoke anxiously, taking a moment to find her voice. “So… I have news.” 

 

“Okay, tell me,” Jenny said, looking to Ian to pass the milk for her fresh mug of tea. 

 

“Well,” Isobel began, taking a breath and her face lighting up, “I got a new job!” She nearly bounced with happiness, and John beamed beside her. 

 

“Oh, ye did!” Jenny exclaimed, “That’s great!”

 

Isobel laughed. “Oh, I’m so excited! And don’t worry about your flower order. Hannah will take care of you.” She grinned wide, her teeth perfect and white. 

 

“Guess where it is,” implored John, “It’s not here.” 

 

Isobel nodded encouragingly. 

 

“Um,” Jenny stammered between crêpe bites, thinking and trying to read her friend. 

 

“I’ll bet it’s far away, then,” said Ian. “Boston? New York?” 

 

Isobel shook her head at each possible answer. “Not that far away!” she beamed, pleased with the game. 

 

“Oh, speaking of New York,” piped up John over his eggs benedict, “Have you heard Jamie’s news?”

 

Jenny’s attention snapped to him, and she paused in eating. “What news?”

 

“I’m going to London!” Isobel interrupted, noticeably nudging John’s elbow, “I’ll be working with a company that does floral design for weddings.”

 

“London!” Jenny exclaimed, stunned, “How do you feel?”

 

“I’m… I’m good,” Isobel grinned, “Scared at first, but then I talked it over with John, and we decided he would come with me. He’s just as excited as I am.” 

 

John reached over and squeezed her hand. “It’s going to be wonderful. I’m so proud of her. London. Couldn’t imagine a more exciting place to be.”

 

“Exactly!” Isobel interjected, “Really, the more I thought about it, the more I felt like it was time.”

 

The smile faded from Jenny’s face, replaced with a seriousness, as if there was some truth, some discovery just within her grasp. “Time for what?”

 

“Time for a change, is all.”

 

Jenny quieted and stared down at her plate, thinking about Isobel in London. Quite a large city - well, that was an understatement - and it was everything Jenny knew Isobel wanted for herself. She couldn’t blame Isobel for her enthusiasm and excitement, for her seizing such an opportunity when presented; getting free of the rural highlands opened doors to opportunities otherwise barred. She  _was_ happy for Isobel, of course, seeing the way she glowed and beamed over her waffle, busting at the seams with joy. So this was why they had been asked to lunch, why John had come with her. To announce the move, and to announce it together. A team. 

 

Under the table, Ian ran a knuckle along Jenny’s thigh as he congratulated Isobel and John on their next step, but Jenny didn’t respond to him. As conversation shifted and took shape around gossip about friends, such as Laoghaire’s new boyfriend, suspiciously similar in looks to Jamie, and Angus’ inability to properly train a dog, Jenny’s strawberry crêpes lost their taste, her tea’s caffeine making her jittery. She felt Isobel’s eyes on her and avoided her gaze.

 

Jenny folded her arms over her chest, smiling only when the conversation demanded it. She couldn’t help but resent Isobel for leaving. Isobel wasn’t weighed down by responsibility, by obligation to family or expectation. Even if Jenny were to be offered a job in Paris, she wouldn’t be able to take it. She looked to her half-eaten crêpes, the fork balanced on the edge of the plate, dusted with powdered sugar and sticky with red syrup. 

 

Everything felt backwards. Wasn’t she supposed to be the one to leave this place behind? Not the one  _left_ behind?

 

Brunch came to an end, and everybody rose from the table, their wooden chairs groaning as they slid along the tiled floor. John and Isobel went first. As Ian and Jenny trailed behind, Ian placed his hand on the small of her back, and she felt his thumb softly brush against her. She gave an apologetic shrug, worried that she had ruined brunch and Isobel’s announcement.

 

“Jenny,” Isobel said while they gathered for goodbyes on the sidewalk outside. She clasped Jenny around the elbow, hard, and moved her a distance away from Ian and John. “What is going on?” 

 

The temperature was cooler outside, and Jenny felt goosebumps raise on her arms. “What do ye mean?” Jenny asked, slowly.

 

“Are you...?” Isobel looked her over, squinting from either scrutiny or to keep the summer sun from her eyes. 

 

Jenny wanted to appear supportive, tried to push away thoughts of the orchard and Paris. “Of course, I’m happy for you, Iz, why would ye think otherwise--” 

 

“ _Ian_ , Jenny.” Isobel rolled her eyes. “Not me.”

 

 _Oh._ Without thinking, Jenny glanced over at him, then back at Isobel. “I’m sorry, I still don’t catch yer meaning.” She shrugged as casually as she could. 

 

Isobel grabbed Jenny’s arm again, turning their backs on the two men. “I saw the way you looked at each other, how he touched you,” she smirked, “C’mon, Jenny. Spill.” 

 

“There’s nothing to  _spill_ ,” Jenny scoffed, using air quotes. God, she needed to distract Isobel, to come up with an excuse. She wasn’t ready to share whatever it was with anyone outside Ian. “He’s just a friend.”

 

“Just a friend,” Isobel replied skeptically. “Uh huh. Like John and I are friends.” 

 

“Ye and John have been together for years, Isobel. It’s no’ the same.” 

 

“So, you  _are_ together!” Isobel whispered excitedly. “I knew it.” 

 

 _Fuck._ Jenny waved her hands in dismissal and shook her head, maybe a little too hard. “No, no, no. Please don’t think that.” 

 

“Like, friends with benefits, then? You  _are_ sleeping with him?” 

 

Jenny’s eyes widened with shock. “ _No,_ for Christ’s sake, we’re no’--” 

 

But Isobel had seen Jenny’s blush. “Oh my god. I want to hear all about it.” 

 

Jenny ran her hands through her hair in frustration. “There’s nothing to hear, Isobel. Nothing is happening.” 

 

“But Jenny--” 

 

“Izzy--”

 

“You cannot possibly think I could see you two today and  _not_ think you’re sleeping together. You think I’m that stupid? Really?”

 

Jenny sighed, knowing Isobel wouldn’t give it up. 

 

“When did it start?”

 

“Isobel, there’s nothing there. Stop asking about it.”

 

“I won’t stop asking, you know why?” Isobel’s eyes were bright, challenging. 

 

“Why?” Jenny rolled her eyes. 

 

“He called you ‘Jen’ instead of ‘Jenny’ or ‘Janet.’” 

 

Jenny took a step back. “What?”

 

“I’ve known you a long time, and I have never heard you tolerate anyone shortening your name. You always correct people. Or you did. But you didn’t with Ian. That was the first sign.” She held up a hand, as if to count off her reasoning, as Jenny stared at her. “Oh, let’s see what else. He also touched your legs. Do you touch your  _friends’_ legs, Jenny? Want to touch mine? Or John’s? That’s normal  _friend you’re not sleeping with_ behavior, you think? No, because it’s not. Third,” she held her hand up, indicating the third finger to emphasize her point, “you guys have those goo-goo eyes new couples get. Eugh, makes me sick. Fourth, you constantly touched him. His arms, his hand, his knee. Oh, I saw.” Isobel nodded with mock gravity. “And  _fifth_ \--”

 

“Alright!” Jenny nearly stomped her foot. They’d been caught.

 

Isobel grinned wide. “See! I knew it!”

 

“Yes, dammit. Fine.  _Something_ is going on. But I don’t know what yet. And  _no_ ,” Jenny punctuated, “we  _have not_ slept together.” 

 

“Yet,” finished Isobel, satisfied. 

 

Despite herself, Jenny smiled, rolling her eyes.

 

Isobel laughed and enveloped Jenny into a hug. “Oh, this is so exciting. So new, so innocent, so pure...” 

 

Jenny laughed, too, her chest feeling lighter. “Hopefully not too innocent,” she joked, letting go of Isobel, nudging her shoulder. “Just one thing.” 

 

“Mm hm?” 

 

“Ian and I, we haven’t, er, talked about... it... yet. Please keep this conversation between us.” 

 

“From where I was sitting it didn’t look like much talking was going on,” Isobel pestered. 

 

“Och, Iz. Please. Tch.” Jenny shook her head. “We werena so bad.”

 

“Maybe not,” Isobel acknowledged. “There’s something more than that between you, I think.” She turned around and openly looked Ian up and down. “He’s gorgeous, you know.” 

 

Jenny sighed. “I  _know_.”

 

 

 


	14. Apple

Jenny was drunk.  _Well, not drunk_ , she thought, feeling the warmth of alcohol seep deliciously into her limbs, but perhaps she was a bit buzzed. Whisky hummed in her ears, and she closed her eyes momentarily as the world whirled slowly around her.

 

She tried to focus on the sounds of the night, the distant chorus of crickets and toads, the crackle of the firepit, but she failed. Instead, she shifted onto her side as she lay in the truck bed. A blanket had been lain down, the old scratchy kind most people find in the back of their vehicles. It scraped pleasantly against the underside of her arm as she lay with her head propped in her hand, the blanket smoothing the hard plastic grooves on the truck bed, her eyelids heavy as she looked over at Ian.

 

He lay beside her on his back, one arm extended up and around his head as a pillow, the other resting idly on his stomach. There were only a few inches between them. His outline shone orange against the velvet plum of night, his skin gently reflecting firelight as he focused up at the sky. His free hand had been tapping restlessly against his diaphragm, and it stilled as he became aware of her gaze. He turned his head towards her, his eyes almost black in the darkness, and gave her a wry smile.

 

They were exhausted, but opening day was over - Lallybroch Orchards was officially open for the season. They had escaped to a familiar clearing just off the property line, a bottle of scotch and a box of powdered donuts in hand, ready to celebrate their success. They had talked for a time, but now lay in content silence, happy to be together, and alone.

 

Jenny grinned, and she looked away from Ian down past her toes, taking in warmth from the fire he had built for them. It was gently ablaze, perhaps five feet from the edge of the truck bed. As kids, she, Ian, and Jamie had absconded from summer responsibilities into this glade, playing pretend at knights and soldiers, or, as they grew older, lighting bonfires and sipping stolen liquor with friends. Their makeshift fire pit from a decade ago still worked.

 

There were only three reasons Ian would build a fire, Jenny reasoned, closing one eye to steady the slight spin of her vision, watching the flames lick upwards. One, to keep disagreeable bugs away with the smoke. Two, to provide light and warmth against the oncoming chill of autumn, now a visitor after the sun went down. And three… she looked up to see him watching her, and the heat of whisky burned her cheeks. Reason three, her whirling mind raced to confess, was romance.

 

Jenny took a deep breath, her lungs filling with the scent of sap and smoke. Then her cheeks dimpled into a smile, and she leaned forward to press her mouth to Ian’s.

 

* * *

 

 

Like any other day, opening day at Lallybroch Orchards had been full of knots only Jenny could untangle.

 

She had hired a local band to play, and had to send someone to the store when they had misplaced a couple cords. A few employees were arguing over who had to move some hay bales, so Jenny just made them all do it. At one point during the hubbub of the day, a full cask of cider had been destroyed, causing a big spill and a waste of hard-worked product. Jenny had to spend several moments reassuring the employees responsible that she wasn’t angry - even though she had been.

 

She had spent her day managing cash tills, packaging apple treats, passing out pick-your-own totes, directing traffic for parking. As the day went on, and more people flooded the orchard, she became more confident that she could do it. She could run Lallybroch.

 

But she couldn’t shake the fear that it wasn’t good enough. There were more attendees than expected, but could she have promoted opening day more? Could a few more late nights have done more to perfect the apple pie recipe?

 

As sunset approached, Jenny felt a pang of relief. At the very least, opening day had come and gone without major catastrophe. She wanted to feel like the day was perfect, but she couldn’t ignore the fact that it could have gone better. They could have made better sales, been better organized, advertised more aggressively.

 

At one point, Jenny had hand-picked apples for sale in Lallybroch’s small store. Her arms ached while carrying a full apple tote, the apples hard and heavy against her forearms and ribs as she walked through the orchard. Excitement flowed through the air around her - families, dates, groups of friends, all carrying their own apple bags. They whooped and giggled, running from tree to tree, picking apples and drinking cider.

 

She heard a cry, a small wail in the distance. She crouched, glanced through the tree branches, looking for the sound, and spotted a tiny pacing head through the row of trees. A child, in distress. She set her apple bag down and ducked through the branches, following the voice as calmly as she could.

 

She came upon a frantic young face streaked with tears.

 

“Hey, buddy, what can I--”

 

“Mama?”

 

Jenny stopped, a careful distance away to not spook the child, and looked around, seeing no other adults in sight. “Hey, hey,” she said, eyeing the child for any injury, squatting on her heels to meet him at his level. “I’m here to help. What’s Mama look like?”

 

The child paused in his frantic pacing to look at Jenny, his cheeks tearstained and eyes red. “I don’t know,” he said. He looked to be about seven years old, and entirely lost.

 

“Where did ye see your mama last, lad? Was it at this tree?”

 

“I don’t know.” He burst into shuddering tears, rubbing a fist into an eye.

 

How long had this kid been lost? Jenny wondered, and reached out a reassuring hand. “That’s ok. I’m here to help. What if,” she gave what she hoped was a reassuring smile, “we go up to the farmhouse and ask someone to make an announcement, so the whole orchard can hear?”

 

At this suggestion, his skin flushed pink and he stared at her boots in the grass, his tears slowing. He eventually looked up and gave Jenny a wary look through brown eyes.

 

“My name’s Jenny. I own the farm.” She stuck out her hand. “What’s your name?”

 

He wiped his nose on his sleeve, considering her. He was very cute, the waning daylight reflecting warmly on a crown of brown hair, the tip of his nose red, his denim overalls covering a yellow striped shirt. He looked like a Norman Rockwell painting come to life, surrounded by apple trees, weeds, soil, and sunlight. “Wyatt,” he muttered, his tension easing, but he didn’t take Jenny’s proffered hand.

 

She let it drop and stood straight. “Come with me to the house, and we’ll make an announcement for your mom,” she said resolutely, brushing dust from her jeans. She reached for her radio, attached to her belt, and sent out a message to her staff about finding a lost child, to send any concerned parent to meet them at the farmhouse.

 

“How about something to drink, or a snack?” she asked the child once the house was in sight, and her steps faltered.

 

There were people everywhere. Around them circulated a crowd of visitors from the field parking lot, red balloons tied to fence posts and flowers from Hannah’s shop in Cranesmuir, live music from the little bandstand Joseph had erected. But Jenny’s concentration zeroed in on one thing: two heads bent together in an intense conversation. Ian and Dougal. What--

 

Then she noticed Wyatt was gone from her side, spotting him at the last minute as the crowd nearly swallowed the sight of him. No wonder his mother had lost track of him, Jenny thought irritably. She rushed after him, grabbing him by the shoulder. “Hey!”

 

He looked up at her, and pointed towards the donut line, now smiling. “Donuts?”

 

Jenny chuckled, “I’ve some treats in my kitchen, and we won’t have to wait in line.”

 

“But if you own the farm, can’t you skip the line?”

 

“Hm. That might be true. But that wouldn’t be fair, now, would it?” She grinned as she saw Wyatt reflect on this and began to steer him back towards the house.

 

“No trouble, no trouble,” she murmured, pulling dishes from the cupboards and tupperware with homemade donut holes off the counter. Wyatt had set himself up at the breakfast table, his little legs swinging free, unable to reach the floor.

 

“I’ll bet you’ll see yer mam if you watch close enough,” she said to him.

 

He looked eagerly out the windows, searching through the people. The lace curtains had been pulled back to let in natural light, and it poured into the already cheerful room.

 

“Here ye are,” she said, placing a treat and glass of milk in front of him. Her employees were trotting in and out of the farmhouse, their footsteps and voices muffled through the walls of the kitchen. She could hear the screen door open and close, and she couldn’t help that her ears pricked for signs of Ian’s footsteps, but he didn’t come inside.

 

Jenny bit into a donut, pleased with the success of her fiddling with her mother’s recipe, and was thankful for the stillness of the kitchen and a momentary break.

 

Her radio crackled, an employee letting her know Wyatt’s mother had been found and would be up to the farmhouse soon.

 

“D’ye hear that, lad? She’s coming,” she said, and ran her hands under the faucet to be rid of the donut’s stickiness. She flicked water droplets off her fingertips.

 

“Jenny!” Mrs. Crook came into the kitchen, her hair frizzed out with panic, her white kitchen uniform powdery with flour and crusty with dried syrup. “Adso got out. Someone left the door open. She took off like a bat out of hell, and she’s gone! We canna find her.”

 

“What do ye mean, someone left the door open!” Adso had been known to paw at the door, stick her claws in the screen, but had never escaped before. Leaving was dangerous for the indoor cat - Jenny knew she wouldn’t survive if she was lost outdoors. Her eyes snapped to Wyatt, peacefully eating his donut holes one by one, and fear rippled through her at the thought of her lost cat. But she couldn’t leave Wyatt unattended, and she turned, helpless, to Mrs. Crook.

 

Mrs. Crook saw the look and understood. Her own radio was clipped to her pocket. Everyone on the orchard knew the business of the day, and she had no doubt heard about the lost child. “You stay here. I’ve already sent folk to look. Dinna worry too much, my dear.” And she left, leaving Jenny alone with the child in the kitchen, the calmness of the space grating against her nerves as she itched to get out and look for her cat.

 

It was her fault and she knew it. She had always kept Adso inside, afraid that if she were to roam outdoors, she would be lost in the woods, hit by a car, killed by a fox. But it was stupid to worry about those things. She had never actually seen a fox around Lallybroch, and there were rarely any cars driving by. If she was less protective, maybe Adso would be used to the outdoors and getting out wouldn’t be so catastrophic.

 

Adso had been hers for years now. Wherever Jenny was in the farmhouse, the cat was not far behind. A silent shadow, a constant companion. And now-- she was gone? Would she come back?

 

Her fingers tapped restlessly against the countertop until she sighed and moved to the window, unable to resist looking out, searching in vain for her missing cat and the child’s mother.

 

“Mama!” Wyatt had spotted his mother through the window and waved at her in the crowd. She turned and saw him, too.

 

“Let’s go,  _a bhalaich_.” Jenny offered her hand, and Wyatt took it this time, bracing himself against Jenny as he climbed down from the chair.

 

They emerged onto the small concrete porch, hand in hand. Ian was walking in with a very relieved looking parent. He placed a kiss on her cheek, taking a place at her side on the porch.

 

“Thank you so much for watching my boy,” said Wyatt’s mother, bending to hug her son as Jenny passed him to her. “He has a habit of taking off. It’s so lovely to be at a family business where I don’t have to worry about him too much if he gets away.” She looked between Jenny and Ian. “I appreciate ye caring for him.”

 

Ian coughed politely as Jenny smiled at her. “Our pleasure. Enjoy the orchard.”

 

Jenny winked at Wyatt before waving him off. “Dinna tell anyone else ye had donuts in the farmhouse. That was just for you.”

 

He nodded and took his mother’s hand, disappearing with her into the crowd.

 

“I found Adso,” Ian said without preamble, causing a rush of gratitude through Jenny. “She’s with the goats.”

 

“Oh, thank Christ,” she muttered, a hand coming up to rest on her breast bone. “I was worried sick.”

 

Ian swiped a finger across the brim of his baseball cap, saluting her. “Yeah, well. I didn’t think a cheetie belonged in the goat pen. She wouldna let me pick her up but I’ve corralled her for now. She’s not going anywhere.”

 

“How did ye know she got out?” Jenny asked.

 

“Well, I was talking with Dougal in the yard and a grey flash went by me. Straight for the trees, then veered right at the last minute towards the animals.” He gestured in the direction, then shrugged. “I kent it was Adso, so I followed. Come with me, we’ll grab her.”

 

He led Jenny through their customers to the goat pen, and there was a milk crate turned upside down, trapping the escaped cat like a bug. “On the count of three, I’ll free her. Ready? You have to grab her.”

 

“I’m ready,” Jenny said, crouching into an exaggerating pose, making Ian laugh, and her worries from the day seemed to evaporate. She beamed at him. “Now give me my cat.”

 

* * *

 

 

Jenny drew close to Ian, who opened his arms to her. She rested her head on the crook of his shoulder, her fingers lightly sketching a circular pattern on his chest and stomach.

 

Now that the orchard was open, she wasn’t sure what came next.  Would the rest of her life be like today? she wondered. Reopening the orchard after Brian’s death was, yes, an accomplishment, but how long until it became routine? Mundane? Boring? Would she spend her life caught in the cycle of orchard seasons, opening in late summer, closing in early winter? Managing business affairs and orchestrating farm work? Paying creditors and working with numbers?

 

Her fingers slowed as she thought about her neglected writing, and she was irked that she hadn’t picked up a book to read in several days. She made a promise to herself to do some writing when she got back to the farmhouse, no matter how tired she was.

 

As anxiety bubbled through her, she let her fingers come to a halt on Ian’s chest.

 

“What were you talking about with Dougal today?” she asked quietly.

 

He sighed, taking a moment before he answered. “I intercepted him talking with some visitors.”

 

“About?”

 

He stroked her hair and she closed her eyes a moment, relishing how it steadied her. He spoke gently, “It’s nothing, Jen, dinna trouble yourself.”

 

She snorted but didn’t push the topic. They lay quiet in the truck bed, listening to the nighttime murmur of their surroundings. Ian continued to stroke her hair, gentle and steady, hinting at deeper thoughts. She reached for his free hand, resting on his stomach. She traced his knuckles, caressed the pads of his fingers, and trailed up and down the smooth skin of his forearm until two of her fingers came to a stop. She pressed gently into his wrist, feeling the tendons, searching for the beat of his pulse. There. She nestled contentedly against his side, silently counting his heartbeats.

 

Tonight was overcast; only a few stars glittered through the floating cloud cover and reaching arms of black tree silhouettes. Smoke from the flames faded up into the night, gray and white against deep purple and blue, the fire brilliant in hues of gold, orange, and red. The sharp contrast in the cosmos was stark and beautiful.

 

There was something uncanny about the night, something Jenny wouldn’t forget: the heat of fire, the feel of Ian’s heartbeat.

 

Taking a long, deep breath, she draped a leg over his, pressed her face into his side. He smelled of soil and smoke, rich, earthy, grounded scents, and her fingers were firm against his wrist. His hand in her hair stilled, and he drew away to look at her.

 

“Janet.” Ian’s voice cut through the tension she held in her muscles, the sound of her name relaxing her. “Everything okay?”

 

Slowly, very slowly, she turned her face towards his. Even in the darkness, she sensed the molten warmth of his eyes. “I’m okay,” she said through a half smile. “Only tired.”

 

She went to duck her face into him again, but he stopped her with a finger under her chin. His face was shadowed by the night, barely reflecting light from the fire pit.

 

“You feel it, too?” he asked, his body tensing under her hand. He spoke, slowly, mildly, and Jenny felt like she was being put to some test.

 

“What do you mean?” she muttered.

 

He made a fist in the ends of her black hair, his face serious. After scrutinizing her a moment, he kissed her, hard. She pulled away, feeling dizzy.

 

“ _That_ ,” he said, his voice matter of fact.

 

“Hm,” she hummed, and rolled to press her breasts against him. She traced a finger over his lips. “Yes. That.”

 

He leaned in and kissed her again, and she didn’t allow herself to pull away, instead relenting to the touch. They were together - that was all she wanted. Together, off orchard property, and alone. Thank Christ.

 

At one point, she felt his hands under her sweatshirt, smooth against the skin of her stomach, dimpled with gooseflesh. She sighed into him, held him closer, encouraged touches that tingled. He worked her shirt up over her breasts, exposing a dark green bra, and traced his hands over the flesh around the edge of the cup.

 

She shuddered and sighed as he rolled on top of her. He pressed kisses to her chest and ribcage, her stomach, her pelvic bone, sliding down until his shoulders met her thighs. He nipped at her stomach, undid her fly--

 

“Ian,” she cringed, if ever so slightly, and glanced away, unable to bear the thought that she might disappoint him, that he wouldn’t like what he’d see. “I’m sorry.”

 

His hands on her froze and he pulled away. “Sorry for what?”

 

She blushed furiously. “I’m sorry. I wish-- I’m glad ye canna see me, actually.”

 

He laughed and launched himself up to lie on top of her, pinning her to the truck bed. “You’re no’ serious.”

 

She stiffened, feeling the chill of the night against her bare torso despite his warmth. “I am.”

 

In answer, he pressed his lips to hers, and his mouth wandered to her jaw, her neck, her collarbone. His hands roamed everywhere, as if committing her to memory. Flowers unfurled under her skin, their petals spiraling open with even the smallest touch, the lightest bite. A thrill shot through her, her nerve endings drawn taut, and, despite the whisky and haze of desire, the world around her was crystal clear. She wanted him, now.

  
She felt his shoulders shake with a chuckle, and stilled. “What are ye laughing at?” she asked, annoyed as he rolled onto his side beside her. She tugged down the hem of her shirt to its more appropriate resting place at the waistband of her jeans, and felt more than a little self-conscious. She had read his intentions correctly, hadn’t she?

 

“I’m no’ laughing at anything in particular,” he replied. “Only that I did have something else planned for tonight. You are verra distracting,” he said in a mock-accusing tone.

 

“Me? Distracting?” she replied innocently, her eyes wide.

 

“Yes,” he hissed, flashing her a knowing glance as he sat upright. “Ye should know me well enough that I’ll no’ have sex with you for the first time in the back of a truck bed.”  He said it teasingly, a small smile lighting his features.

 

“No?” Her voice matched his light tone even as her stomach flipped. 

 

He turned and rummaged through his backpack at the back of the truck bed, where he had placed it earlier.

 

“I have something for you,” he said, pulling out a small white envelope.

 

“Oh?”

 

Jenny sat up and took the enveloped from him. She opened it, then stared in disbelief at its contents. A plane ticket. She tilted it towards the fire to see the destination.

 

Her mouth fell open, and she grinned wide. “Paris? Yer sending me to Paris?  _Seriously_?”  

 

Ian nodded encouragingly at her, leaning his back against the side of the truck bed.

 

“Yer  _not_  serious,” she said, her voice and eyes flat.

 

“I am,” he replied, resolute. “Lallybroch opened  _today_ , ye know. Without you, none of this would have happened.” He gestured into the space of the trees, towards the farmhouse and trees laden heavy with apples, a kitchen full of treats from her mam’s recipes. “Ye deserve a break, Jen. Go to Paris for a few days. Recharge.”

 

He leaned forward to kiss her, and she let him, taking his bottom lip between hers, feeling extra affectionate from his gift, from his calling her ‘Jen.’ “Ye’re sure?” she asked once she pulled away.

 

“I’m sure. Aye, take that wee notebook of yours and have some time to yourself.”

 

Jenny let out a whoop of laughter, pulled him towards her by throwing an arm around his neck, and kissed him - hard. “Nuh-uh,” she hummed against his neck, stricken with disbelief even as her hands clutched at him in excited gratitude.

 

“Uh-huh,” he replied, slowly. “Do ye like it? Your gift?”

 

She shook her head in disbelief. “I love it, Ian. Thank you. I can’t wait to be in Paris again.”

 

She squealed, held him tight in an embrace again. God, he felt wonderful. Better than Adso, better than her notebook. And the trip was so soon. Two weekends from now. Two weekends, and she’d be in Paris.

 

Jenny was unable to tell if it was the hum of whisky or the melody of night critters, but she felt light and airy.

 

She wasn’t one for big gestures. Largely, they put her off. Or she thought they did - in all honesty, she didn’t think herself worthy of big gestures. But Ian clearly did, and meant it.

  
In the truck’s cab on the way back to the farmhouse, the ticket to Paris burned white hot in her hand, and she clutched it to her chest like an old friend, once lost and now recovered.  _Paris._

 


	15. Breeze

They worked quietly, music blaring in the background, the dishwasher whirring in the kitchen with a last load of dishes. She was unloading Isobel’s bookcase, helping her friend pack for the big move to London. Isobel was sitting cross-legged on the floor a few feet away from Jenny, working a screwdriver, trying to disassemble her dining room table.

 

_ It just slipped out,  _ Jenny told herself. She had spoken without thinking, surely.  

 

A few days ago, Jenny lay awake in bed. On her end table glared the single ticket to Paris that Ian had purchased for her, the flap of the envelope tucked over it, covering it, just barely. For some reason, she was irritated, and she rolled over, turning her back to it.

 

But she could still sense it. There it sat, open, waiting, and each day that passed brought Paris closer to her. It was only a four-day getaway - not long, really, and she’d be boarding her return flight before she knew it - but now that Paris was here, did she want it?

 

She had groaned and thrown the blankets back, climbed into the shower and let hot water melt her away. It was very early in the morning, the sky gray with minimal sun, a heavy fog on the orchard fields. A quick press of a button on her phone revealed it to be only four in the morning. The highlands were always chilly in the morning - chillier still as summer ended - and the old floors of the farmhouse were cold on the soles of her feet. She tied her wet hair in an absent-minded knot and pulled on her slippers and robe, leaving her room in search of hot coffee, deciding she’d toast a bite of that apple strudel she baked the other day. Adso trotted behind, tail held high.

 

The pleasant scent of fresh coffee spread through the kitchen, and the brewer gurgled as Jenny munched on her apple treat, scrolling through her phone. Jamie had been suspiciously absent from her social media recently, and Jenny itched her nose as she clicked on his profile to see if she had missed any updates. She had been busy, after all.

 

“I swear to god, Janet, do you ever sleep?”

 

Ian stood in the doorway, wearing black socks, grey sweatpants, and no shirt - he held one in his hands. He slipped it on over his head, and Jenny used this moment to stealthily admire him. She thought back to opening day, Ian’s weight on top of her in that truck bed, then quickly turned away as heat crept up her neck. Thankfully, the coffee was ready. She poured her mug full and tightened the tie on her robe before facing Ian again. She hadn’t dressed after showering; she hadn’t expected to see him awake.

 

“I sleep,” she quipped at him. He was moving quietly this morning, and he came closer, now reaching into a cupboard for his own mug.

 

“Wee poltergeist,” he grumbled, giving her a teasing look, reaching around to grab the carafe.

 

Jenny had noticed that Ian hadn’t brought up Paris, only speaking of it when she mentioned it first. He must have known that she was anxious about leaving the orchard unattended for the first time since she moved home. As the trip approached, she spoke of it less and less as her guilt made her uneasy. She would leave Sunday night, return on Thursday. But he was right; she needed a break. She knew she could trust Ian to keep the order of things, he had said as much, after all, when she grilled him about it. But didn’t he need a break, too? He worked hard, if not harder than she did.

 

She had already picked her hotel, planned a trip to the Louvre, picked out some cafes and a bookstore. Despite her nervousness, she was thrilled with the trip away.

 

Sleep still weighed heavy on Ian’s eyelids, and as he yawned and poured coffee Jenny noticed how hair stuck up around his cowlick. Finding this quite adorable, Jenny brightened.

 

“Hey, Ian.” She elbowed him. “Have I properly thanked ye for your gift?”

 

He replaced the carafe in the brewer before he spoke. “What would ye do if I said no?” The corner of his mouth quirked up, and he waved his mug under his nose, breathing in.

 

Her heart fluttered. There were things she’d do to him if she could, she admitted to herself. “Och, ye fool.” She tried to reach a hand up to smooth down his cowlick, but he was too tall. He caught it and brought the underside of her wrist to his lips for a kiss, light and soft.

 

“Really though,” she stammered as he pulled her towards him, trying to reign in the rush of feeling with logic and words, but the early morning light was soft, and he was handsome. “I am very thankful. It was considerate of you…I’m sure it was an expense--” He interrupted her with a quick peck on the lips, patted her behind, and let her go, heading out of the kitchen.

 

That was not the kiss she expected, and she was about to tell him so when she saw a strain in his shoulders, saw him taking his steps with care.

 

“Is your leg bothering you?” she called to him.

 

He looked back, his eyes narrowed as he considered her for a moment. “Aye. Sometimes, in the morning, it’s a bit stiff,” he replied, his voice low. “I take it off when I sleep, ye ken?” She pursed her lips, feeling embarrassed. She hadn’t known that. “Sometimes, in the morning, I get a pins-and-needles feeling. None too bad,” he assured her, “and there’s nothing wrong. It just...is.” He shrugged.

 

“Ye sleep with it off?” she asked, unable to stop herself from wondering out loud. “Ye mean to tell me all these mornings ye dress yourself just so I won’t see yer bad leg?” She gave a pointed look at his socked feet. She had always imagined him with the prosthesis attached, never realizing there may be moments where he was without it.

 

They might be childhood friends, might share secrets, might kiss and flirt and steal touches, but this made Jenny realize there were things about him, and his life, that she might not know.

 

“No,” he replied cautiously. He paused, searching for an explanation, then his lips quirked up. “I only take my prosthesis off to sleep. Or to shower,” he added as an afterthought. “I dinna like to walk around - er, hop, more like - without it. Without coffee, it’s especially exhausting. And those damned stairs,” he jerked a thumb over his shoulder in demonstration, “I canna do those without it. Else I’d have to crawl.”

 

Jenny huffed a quick laugh. Despite Ian’s light-hearted tone, she recognized a test when she saw it. “Well, at any rate, Ian Murray, dinna trouble yourself with hiding your leg from me. I’ll have all of ye or none of ye.”

 

Ian’s face softened. “Ye’ll see it eventually, Jen,” he said. Then he cleared his throat. “Well, at any rate.” His fingers tapped rapidly on the ceramic of the mug he held, its hot contents emitting teeny wisps of steam. “Ye should be glad I won’t be there to slow ye down in Paris. My wee stump is faulty on uneven cobblestones. I’ll lose my other leg, trippin’ and fallin’.”

 

“You climb ladders and trees all the time,” she retorted, feeling the warmth of the mug in her own hands.  

 

“Aye, but that’s no matter. I climbed these trees when I was little, I know this orchard like the back of my hand. Paris, though. It’s a risk. Dinna worry about me, I’ll be fine here. The orchard needs me.”

 

“You should come with me,” she blurted. A strong desire to clap a hand over her mouth in mortification rose inside her, but she desisted, standing stock still. Her heart thudded in her ears. Why the hell had she said that?

 

Ian froze, his manner cautious, his look wary. “Come with ye… to Paris?”

 

Her nostrils flared as she inhaled deeply. “Yes,” Jenny croaked out. She cleared her throat.

 

He frowned. “You’re sure?”

 

“Yes,” she repeated, this time more firmly. To her surprise, she  _ was _ sure.

 

He waited. “...And if I said ‘no,’ what would ye do to me?”

 

The tension broke, and she laughed. “Dammit, Ian.” She slipped her fingers momentarily into her robe, pressing down on her sternum, urging her heartbeat to slow. “Just come with me to Paris already. I would, um, I  _ want _ ,” she stated firmly, “to show you around. If I may?” She winced, looking over at him.

 

“Who would watch the orchard?”

 

“Joseph,” Jenny replied, surety in her voice, slightly surprised that she had an answer to this.  She was simultaneously relieved and irritated that he was asking about the orchard. “He’ll manage while we’re away. It’s no’ for long, anyway, the orchard will be fine.” She gave him a small smile. “So,” she blew out a breath. “Will you? Come with me to Paris, I mean? I’ll buy your ticket.”

 

He chuckled, and she thought she detected a flush to his cheeks. “Of course, Jen. I’ll go to Paris with you.”

 

Ian had become such an integral part of her day-to-day that imagining time away from him bothered her. Paris was important to her - but so was Ian, she admitted her herself. She could dismiss the shift in their relationship as a romantic dalliance, a distraction, two lonely people buffing out each others’ sharp edges, but she knew it ran deeper than that. She asked him to come along because she’d wanted to invite him. She’d daydreamed about it - often. But it had slipped out, surely. She hadn’t  _ really  _ meant to ask him but had been desperate to know if he’d come along.

 

“I can’t wait until moving is behind me,” Isobel said, bringing Jenny out of memory. Jenny straightened books in the box in front of her as Isobel stood and stretched, the overlarge tee she wore - most likely John’s - widening over her frame as she did so. She groaned and approached Jenny, peering over the box of books. “You stack those nicely.”

 

“Ye know, I can’t really believe you’re moving to London.” Jenny shook her head, weighing a few books in her hands.

 

“Mm. We should take a break. Want a glass of water?”

 

“Sure.”

 

Isobel disappeared into the kitchen, then popped her head around the corner. “When’s the last time ye left Broch Mordha, Jen? Do ye get out much?” It had been a few weeks since their lunch in Cranesmuir.

 

“Ah, no. Orchard keeps me busy.” She shrugged and turned back to the mostly-empty bookcase. She felt her black hair drape over her shoulders and back as she bent to clear the bottom shelf.

 

“Well, you should try to go somewhere. You look exhausted.” Isobel reappeared then, coming towards her across the beige carpet to hand Jenny a paper cup.

 

She shot Isobel a glare. “Tch. Thanks so much.” Her voice echoed in her cup as she lifted it to drink, setting it on the nearby windowsill once drained.

 

Isobel seated herself on a box across from Jenny’s work area. “I didn’t mean it like that… only that I can tell you work hard. And now you’re here to help me move.” She clicked her tongue, looking at Jenny with mock disapproval.

 

“Yeah, isn’t this supposed to be John’s job?” Jenny teased.

 

Isobel shrugged. “John’s got his own place to pack up. Besides,” she nodded towards a large pile of neatly stacked and taped boxes near the door. “He did all that.”

 

Jenny chuckled. “Well, then. When ye’ve got me to pack, and John to pack, ye dinna have to lift a finger.”

 

“Hey!” Isobel laughed. “Don’t distract me with insults. We were talking about your missing sense of adventure. What happened to that?”

 

“What?” Jenny reached for the tape to close the box she had filled. “I’m adventurous.”

 

Isobel closed one eye and regarded her with such a ridiculous face that Jenny had to laugh.

 

“Okay, well, I’ll admit I’ve been standing still with all this orchard business.” The tape stuck to her fingers, and she opened her arms wide to keep it from sticking to itself, then knelt to wrestle with closing the box.

 

Isobel came forward to help. “Mm-hm,” Isobel said, goading Jenny on.

 

Jenny sighed. “However--”

 

“It’s Ian?” Isobel interrupted, lighting up.

 

Jenny snorted and ran a hand along the tape on the box, smoothing it down. “Well, sure. There’s Ian.” She shook her head, in near disbelief. “It’s so… odd. I dinna ken how to describe it.”

 

“Come on. Try.”

 

Jenny frowned. Some inner part of her wanted it said out loud, to make it real, another wanted to keep it private, as if it weren’t real, at all. She leaned back onto her haunches and then dropped to sit on the floor.

 

“Alright.” She drew a breath. “This is so corny.” She cringed, and Isobel blinked at her, waiting.

 

“Yes?”

 

“It’s--well ye know--he’s so--ugh!” she exclaimed, exasperated with herself. The words to describe Ian escaped her.

 

Isobel sat back on the floor and crossed her legs, tilted her head at Jenny in consideration. Her gaze was intent. “Ian’s a very serious person.”

 

“Yes! That’s it. He’s so serious. I mean, no’ like that, he’s funny, and he’s kind, and he’s whip-smart…”

 

“He’s serious about  _ you _ , and  _ you and him _ , I mean.”

 

Jenny stilled, and her shoulders slumped with the relief of the admission. “Yes. It feels like we’re in the deep end already when things have just started.”

 

“What do you mean?” Isobel asked, and Jenny glanced at her. “Only so I understand you,” she followed up quickly.

 

“Oh.” Jenny found herself pausing, digging her heel into the carpet, avoiding Isobel’s gaze. “He bought me a trip to Paris,” she mumbled.

 

“You’re  _ kidding _ !” Isobel squealed.

 

“No, I’m not,” Jenny snipped back. “I have the ticket just there, in my purse, if ye’d like to see.” This was true; she found herself taking the ticket everywhere with her, quite unable to believe she was going to Paris, that she was going with Ian.

 

Isobel waved a hand in dismissal, then her eyebrows shot up as she realized something. “Wait, you said  _ the  _ ticket. He only bought one?”

 

“Yes, of course,” Jenny said, wincing slightly.

 

“That’s right, Ian wouldn’t presume he could go with you. How very… Ian of him.”

 

“Tch. Iz. Please. Can’t he just be nice?”

 

“No, I’m serious. How kind of him.” Isobel’s eyes turned soft with admiration. “I know what Paris means to you. Seems like Ian does, too. And like I said earlier-- would be good for you to get a break. I’m glad he and I agree about that.” She gave Jenny a pointed look, clearly admonishing Jenny for her lack of self-care. “You just enjoy the time alone, and the time away.”

 

“See but the thing is,” Jenny found herself saying, then stopped.

 

“Yes?”

 

“I invited him,” Jenny quickly confessed.

 

Isobel gasped and laughed. “No!”

 

“Yes,” Jenny hissed back. “So. Ian is coming along to Paris wi’ me.”

 

“That’s a big deal, isn’t it?” Isobel’s eyebrows had disappeared into her hairline in her surprise.

 

Jenny twisted her hands together. “How do you mean?”

 

“Only that taking a trip together is a big step. And you’ve only been together for what, a couple months?”

 

“If that, I’m no’ sure. This summer sometime. It all blends together. Like I said earlier, time with Ian just feels so natural, like I can’t stop it.” She shrugged. “It just… happened.”

 

“Have you slept with him yet?” Isobel asked, her tone casual.

 

Jenny immediately scowled at her friend, then exhaled the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She began to nervously plait a lock of her hair, looking towards the window. Maybe Isobel would have a better view at her new place. Not a parking lot.

 

“Jenny!”

 

“No, okay! I havena.” She grimaced. “Ye dinna think--surely--”

 

“Oh,” said Isobel, wide-eyed. “I think. That’s for sure.”

 

Jenny’s eyes flashed a deep blue, and she shifted agitatedly. “Say it.”

 

“Well, I mean…you’re going away together… to a romantic city… things are bound to happen.” Isobel said, grinning. “You haven’t thought about… it… with Ian... at all?”

 

Jenny flushed furiously. “No.”

 

“ _ No _ ?” Isobel unfolded her legs, stretching them out in front of her. “I don’t believe you. Absolutely not. There’s no way you invited him to Paris without thinking about deflowering him there.” Jenny started at this but Isobel held up her hand. “Just a figure of speech, I doubt he’s a virgin. I can guarantee you, though, he’s thought about sex with you. Especially since you haven’t slept together yet. That’s for certain, Jenny, I’m telling you. It was probably the first thing that crossed his mind when you invited him along.” Her eyes crinkled at the corner, a teasing glint in them. “He probably thinks about it all the time; you know how men are.”

 

“Och, no way. Ian doesna think like that.”

 

“Oh, he definitely does,” Isobel stated, matter of fact.

 

“You’re no’ serious!” Heat had been creeping up Jenny’s face and neck since the beginning of the exchange and was quickly becoming unbearable.

 

“Do you have any evidence that he  _ doesn’t _ think that way?” Isobel asked in challenge.

 

Jenny wracked her brain. No, of course not. She could sense-- no, she knew-- Ian did want that, and she knew she wanted it, too. Isobel’s victorious smile told her that the answer was obvious. Yes-- Jenny was immensely curious, and very excited, about possibly-- maybe-- eventually-- sleeping with Ian. But also terrified. What would it mean?

 

Jenny grimaced. “Surely, ye dinna think that’s  _ all  _ he wants...?”

 

Isobel crossed her arms. “Based on my experience with Ian, no. He’s too down to Earth for that nonsense. And I saw how you guys act together. There’s something… more… below the surface for him.”

 

Jenny agreed. Ian wouldn’t take her to Paris just to take advantage of her. But no-- she was the one who had invited him. Was she taking advantage of him, in that case? Because she knew he was deeply connected to her? Was she as connected to him?

 

“How long has it been?” Isobel asked, cutting into Jenny’s thoughts.

 

“How long has it been since what?” she asked.

 

“Don’t play coy with me, Jenny. How long has it been since you got laid?”

 

Jenny scoffed and shook her head. “Oh for Christ’s sake, Izzy.”

 

“Tell me right this instant. How long?”  

 

“Fine.” Jenny rubbed her temples. “It’s been over a year.”

 

“Over a  _ year _ ?” Isobel replied loudly, eyes wide with shock. “Are you  _ serious _ ?”

 

“Yes, of course, I am serious,” Jenny hissed back. “Why would I joke about it? The orchard keeps me busy. I haven’t, uh, had the time.” She flinched.

 

“So that means,” Isobel said, her eyes squinting as she thought on this. “You haven’t had sex since before-- your father died?” Her mouth fell agape. “You’re braver than I am. Taking the love of your life to Paris to seduce him while being so out of practice in bed.”

 

“What do you mean ‘the love of my life’?”

 

“Aren’t you worried you won’t be any good at it? That you’ll be rusty?”

 

This was too much, and embarrassment prickled. “Of  _ course  _ I am worried about that, Isobel,” she snapped, then sighed and lowered her voice. “In all honesty, we probably could have been sleeping together for a while now, but, I don’t know.”

 

“You guys, like, live together. Why haven’t you?”

 

“I’m not sure,” Jenny said, frowning. She drew her knees up under her chin and let out a long breath.

 

“Mm,” hummed Isobel, not unsympathetically. She idly plucked at the carpet. After allowing a moment to pass, she spoke again. “What I know is, when John and I, er, well, he hadn’t been with a woman in a few years. He had been with a guy for a long time.”

 

“Oh, right, Hector, you mean.” Jenny knew little of John’s ex, only that they had spent their first couple years in college together.

 

Isobel nodded. “He was a lot more nervous that you are now, I’d bet. A different kind of nervousness from yours, but similar in some ways. And,” she gave a small shrug, “that didn’t matter in the end. Everything was fine.”

 

“You’re sure?” Jenny ventured.

 

“One hundred percent,” Isobel said warmly, “And if I know you, and I know Ian, everything will be more than fine.”

  
  
  
 


	16. Sky

Jenny loved words. She loved how they looked when written, how they sounded when spoken, how they conjured images in her mind.

 

Over the course of the summer, she had gravitated more and more towards her little black notebook. Tucked inside were all things important to her, contents spanning wish lists, song lyrics she liked, orchard business, poems, doodles, short stories -- whatever drew her pen to the page.

 

Her writing needed inspiration; a muse, whether that was the Lallybroch, herself, or Ian. In her most intimate of opinions, there was no better muse than Ian. Words just flowed better, came faster, when she thought of him.

 

And she was thinking a lot about him now. But instead of writing, she was antsy. She glared at the empty notebook page in front of her, rapped her pen on the table’s edge, ran a hand through her hair, sipped her espresso, tapped her foot.

 

Seated at a table in a cafe patio on a Paris street, she was free from the demands of any immediate obligation, able to take her moments as she liked. Here, she was surrounded by the bustle of pedestrians, the hustle of cars, the clatter of dishware as the people around her ate and talked about their days. She’d arrived in the city last night, alone. Due to the last-minute nature of her plane ticket purchase, she couldn’t get Ian on the same inbound flight. He was on his way today, though. Her eyes were nervously drawn to her phone, waiting for the message announcing his arrival.

 

She chewed on the end of her pen, searching for something, anything to write down. Ian would probably ask what she’d accomplished on her first day. She should try to get something done.

 

This was supposed to be a writing getaway, after all.

 

Her first day in Paris, she explored residential areas and lurked in bookstores where she ran her hands along book spines, seeking something tangible to stir the words in her mind. She had jotted down names of books that caught her eye and bought the few she could afford.

 

Looking again to her notebook, she admitted to herself that she didn’t plan on writing much once Ian got here.

 

 _Ian._ She wrote his name, the letters simple on the page.

 

 _IanIanIanIanIanIanIanIanIanIanIan,_  she wrote, this time in cursive, not lifting her pen from the page in one continuous blue stroke as she wrote it over and over again. Then, a list of words:  _earth, meteor, sunshine, hymn._

 

Cringing, she scratched them out. Then appeared the word  _Mam_ , as if her pen were guided by something beyond herself. The ballpoint ran away with the end of the last ‘m,’ swirling out into an exaggerated flourish.

 

With a pang of sadness, Jenny took in the Paris street around her. The last time she had set foot in this city was with her mother. Her mother, whose recipes Jenny changed in a quest to improve them. Her mother, whose kitchen cheerily welcomed her each morning, whose face and coloring she saw echoed in her brother, whose memory faded every day. Out of the corner of her eye, Jenny caught a glimpse of her own black hair, so like her father’s, webbing out over her arm as her elbow rested on the table. She blinked rapidly, feeling nothing like her mother at all, temporarily stung by disappointment. Jenny muttered and cursed the orchard under her breath as she shoved away her grief and guilt, willing her thoughts to other things.

 

The orchard.

 

If she hadn’t inherited the business, would Ian have remained only Ian, would he ever become  _Ian_?

 

She drew circles in the corner of the page, her pen sliding back around to Ian’s name. Hastily, as if it were a secret, she scribbled out another name:  _Janet Murray._ She paused, holding her breath, her pen hovering above the page. Then she wrote it a second time, her face breaking into a grin.  _MurrayMurrayMurrayMurrayMurrayMurrayMurray._ Her page was quickly filling up, and she tilted it to find free space.

 

A name,  _JanetFloraArabellaFraserMurray_ , all one word.Then a signature:  _Janet Murray._

 

Someone walked very near the table, and she sucked in a breath, scratching out the repeated names, covering the page with her hand. Embarrassment caused heat to creep up her neck even as she realized no one saw, let alone cared, what she was up to.

 

Jenny mentally scolded herself for acting so immature. Shaking her head, she dropped her pen and it caught in the spine of her open notebook.

 

She took a sip of her espresso and glanced around as casually as she could, her foot tapping rapidly against the concrete sidewalk. She was being foolish.

 

Her thoughts returned to the list of words that followed Ian’s name at the top of the page.  _Earth, meteor, sunshine, hymn._ She bit her lip as she considered them, trying to trace a train of thought that might have led to such word association, but ended up shrugging it off. Maybe some mysteries are more romantic if they’re left alone.

 

Her phone buzzed.

 

_Here._

 

* * *

 

 

Jenny spotted Ian in the hotel lobby, his black duffel bag beside him as he sat in a chair, idly flipping through a magazine. He looked up immediately, as if he’d known the moment she’d entered the building. He wasn’t wearing his baseball cap. Her heart lifted as she approached him.

 

She gave him a warm smile by way of greeting and his face lit up. Ian stood and pulled her into his arms. He pressed a quick, hard kiss to her mouth, and Jenny had only a moment to register how much his touch comforted her before he released her. “Hi.”

 

Her fingers touched her mouth in surprise, then she chuckled. “Well, hello. It’s good to see you. Do you need help carrying anything?”

 

“Nah, I’ve got it.” He slung his bag over his shoulder.

 

Jenny traced the strap of the bag draped across her chest, her notebook and the scribbled  _Janet Murray_ safely tucked inside. “Um, this way.”

 

She felt every one of his footsteps behind her like the pulse of an electric current. In the elevator, Ian’s hand ran through his hair, as if he missed his baseball cap, as if he was as nervous as she felt. Neither of them spoke.

 

With a soft chime, the elevator doors slid open, and Jenny led Ian down the hallway. With a flip of her hand, Jenny pulled the room key from her bag, tapped it against the door. It unlatched with a click.

 

She grasped the handle, stealing a glimpse of Ian before opening the door completely. He was close, outwardly appearing calm, but Jenny detected a slight flush in his cheeks. So, he  _was_ nervous; realizing this made her relax, and she gave him what she hoped was a reassuring, welcoming smile.

 

They entered the room, and she breathed a sigh of relief that housekeeping had swept through already. Last night, she had luxuriated in being away from Lallybroch. Instead of venturing into the city right away, she spoiled herself with room service, napped spread out on the large bed. She had soaked in the tub, read, watched mind-numbing television -- just because she could.

 

The room was tidy and cozy, a warm nest full of white blankets and soft pillows, located high enough for a view of Paris rooftops. Late day sunlight reflected off the brass bed frame, the plush pillows stacked neatly, and comforter pulled tight across the mattress. Her eyes caught briefly on the bed - one bed - then she looked to Ian, who stood still in the middle of the room, bag on his shoulder. His gaze snapped to her from the direction of the bed. It had caught his attention, too.

 

She gave a wry laugh, the tension in the room suddenly seeming silly. “Welcome to Paris, Ian.”

 

Spell broken, he dropped the bag from his shoulder, settling it on the dark wood dresser and began unpacking his things into an empty drawer. They were quiet still, but the electric pulse shifting between them had eased into a light tingle. Jenny was jittery with emotion and hovered around him, wanting to touch him, uncertain how or where. He took out a smaller bag, likely for his toiletries, and set it aside to lean against the mirror. What would be in there? A razor? Toothbrush?

 

“H- how was your flight?” she asked.

 

“Fine. Yours?”

 

“Just fine. No trouble finding the hotel?”

 

“I’m here, aren’t I?” A smile pulled at the corners of his mouth.

 

The day was ending, the late summer sun had begun to set. Golden light cascaded through the window. Ian had finished unpacking, folding up his duffel bag and tucking it into a drawer, too, as if to give his hands something to do, before turning to her.

 

He was close, maybe only a few inches away. She could place a palm on his chest. His gaze was on her mouth, though she pretended not to notice.

 

“Are ye hungry?” she asked after a moment.

 

He straightened, as if he had been leaning into her. “Turns out, I am. Did ye happen to have something in mind?” His tone was light but questioning.

 

“Mm, not really, no.” She looked around, searching for where she set her phone. “I can find us something, though.” Oh, right. Her phone was in her purse. She fumbled for it, but Ian stopped her, putting up a hand.

 

“Actually, I’ve, uh, picked a place. Got us a reservation. I hope ye don’t mind,” he added hurriedly.

 

“I don’t mind,” she said, a bit relieved. An excuse to get out of this room, with its large and comfortable bed, with the way the sunset made Ian’s eyes shift from brown to rich sienna. She never knew a color could be so comforting, so unsettling. She took a deep breath and a step back. “When’s dinner, then?”

 

Ian glanced at his watch. Funny, Jenny thought, she’d never seen him wear one before. Then she noticed that Ian’s clothes were a little cleaner, a little crisper than what he wore at Lallybroch. No dust, no sun-faded colors in sight. A pitch-black t-shirt and dark jeans. Were they new?

 

She looked down at her own clothes, a blue dress he had doubtless seen her in many times before. Feeling self-conscious, she shifted on her feet. Oh god, he was here, they were going to dinner, they were sharing a room, that meant --

 

“We should probably leave now, actually. I’m sorry to rush ye, if you wanted to rest a bit, that is.” He tilted his head as he watched her.

 

“It’s no trouble,” she said, her voice a squeak. “Should I - Do I… need to change?”

 

Ian took a moment to look her over and smirked. “No. Ye look fine.”

 

She’d been wandering around the city all day, her dress limp in some places, wrinkled in others, her wavy hair thickened into a thundercloud with humidity. She could probably do with fresh mascara, too.

 

“Fine? I look  _fine_?”

 

“Ye do,” he said casually, leaning against the dresser.

 

She scoffed. “Ye’re no’ very convincing. I’m going to change.” She waved him out of the way and reached to open the drawer with her clothes.

 

Ian put a hand on her arm, stopping her. “Jenny.”

 

She gave him a questioning look, and he sighed.

 

After a moment, he answered her, his voice low. He skimmed his fingers over her sleeve, his touch featherlight on her shoulder. “I like that dress.”

 

She let herself still for a half second. Ian… he smelled like sunscreen, still, even though she knew he likely hadn’t put any on today. And she swore she could sense the orchard’s apples on him.

 

The light from the window was warm, and he was standing so, so close. His hand was still on her arm, his palm smooth and warm on her skin. He let his hand drop, embarrassed, but Jenny felt something click into place. They weren’t at the orchard - the same rules shouldn’t apply. This was Paris, and she was determined. They could spend this time awkwardly dancing around each other, pretending they were the same old Jenny and Ian, that they weren’t going to end up in bed, but - they were now  _Jenny-and-Ian,_ and they  _would_ spend the night together. And Paris would be more enjoyable if they overcame the jitters now.

 

This is no big deal, Jenny reassured herself. It’s only Ian.

 

“Well, ye know,” she drawled, reaching out to trace her fingers across his collarbone. “It likely wasna the dress I was going to change out of.”

 

His eyebrows shot up, and he blinked at her before breaking into a laugh. He stepped away from the dresser. “Then by all means...”

 

Jenny swiftly pulled a delicate lacy thing from her drawer. She hid it in her fist before slipping into the bathroom, Ian at the window, pretending to be interested in the view of city rooftops.

 

* * *

 

 

Dinner was simple, at a tiny, intimate restaurant with beautiful ambience, like candlelight shimmering through polished amber. The first glass of red wine soothed Jenny’s nerves, and the second made her smile easy, her skin lightly flush. She was happy, and was certain he was, too.

 

“I didn’t know ye liked wine,” Jenny said after Ian ordered a third glass for them and paid the bill. She propped her chin in her palm, considering him.

 

“Everyone likes wine,” he replied, his fingertip tracing the stem of his glass. Then he leaned across the table towards her. It was cleared of their finished plates already, and the only thing separating them was the small, lit tea light and a few crumbs on the linen cloth of the table. “You know what?”

 

“What?” She couldn’t help but brighten every time they made eye contact.

 

“You were right, we probably should have just gotten a bottle.”

 

“Mm.” Jenny ran a finger on the rim of her glass after the server had refilled it. She leaned forward. “You know what?”

 

“What?” Ian lifted his glass for a sip.

 

“I am always right,” she gave him a grave look, “because I’m the boss.”

 

Ian snorted. “If ye say so.” He leaned forward again, motioning with his hand that she should lean forward, too. “Guess what.”

 

She said nothing, her eyes drifting to his mouth, then back up again.

 

“You were right about two more things. One, Paris is beautiful. And two, I want to kiss ye.”  Quick as a cat, he pressed his mouth to hers. He didn’t linger.

 

Slowly, she sat back. “That’s the second time you’ve done that.”

 

“Done what?”

 

She nodded to him. “A hit-and-run kiss.”

 

“You don’t want me to kiss you?” He looked mildly concerned.

 

“No,” Jenny said emphatically. “I do. It’s just, I don’t know, it’s different.” She winced slightly, hoping he would understand.

 

He didn’t. “Different?”

 

“That’s not what I mean, exactly,” she sighed and waved at her glass. She was unable to explain how his kiss felt. “Maybe it’s the wine muddlin’ things.”

 

He looked out the window for a moment.

 

“Do ye feel like a walk?” Ian asked, his voice soft.

 

She gave him a skeptical look. “We havena finished our wine yet.”

 

He picked up his glass and gulped it down, eliciting a surprised laugh from her. “I have. Now you.”

 

“It’s too expensive--”

 

“ _You_.”

 

She rolled her eyes but downed it, the taste dry and deliciously fruity. “Are ye happy now?” She laughed and wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand.

 

He chuckled and reached for her, pulling her out of her seat and leading her outside.

 

It was warm, the end of summer. Street lamps lit the sidewalk, bright halos in the dark of night. The buildings weren’t tall here, the roads winding and narrow. The wine whirred pleasantly under her skin, the flush of alcohol keeping the cool nighttime breeze away. Jenny held onto Ian’s arm as they walked, her hand tucked into his elbow like a couple in a romantic movie.

 

“Tell me what it was like,” Ian said, “the first time ye came to Paris, when you were with your mother.” His voice hinted at his own memories; he had been around when her mother died.

 

She leaned into his shoulder, slightly hesitant to discuss her mother in the city where her ghost seemed to linger around every corner. “I dinna remember much, exactly. I was pretty young. Only a few memories here and there. All I remember is that I loved it here.” She grinned at him, and he nodded in expectation of some detail. She continued. “Alright, well. We rode bikes in a park.” She frowned as she recalled. “And our hotel room overlooked the Seine. It was… so nice for my mother to not be busy with work for the orchard. It felt like the only time I truly got her undivided attention. Jamie is… well, he’s Jamie, and he needed more supervision than I did.”

 

Ian laughed knowingly. “I’ll bet he did.”

 

“You were always egging him on,” Jenny remembered aloud.

 

“Hey, not denying that. My father and your father used to take turns lecturing us.”

 

Jenny chuckled. “Yes, it seemed almost every day you and Jamie were told ye could no longer see or speak to each other. You were rats, though, always escaping your punishment.”

 

He pulled her in, closer to him, bending so his lips brushed her ear. She shivered. “You were  _always_  involved, and yet ye never got caught.”

 

She shoved him away with a laugh. “That’s just because I’m smarter than the two of ye combined.”

 

Ian gave her a slow smile but didn’t pull her back to him again. They walked, loosely connected, her arm outstretched to keep its place at his elbow. Eventually she dropped her arm from his and fell into step beside him.

 

For a few long moments, they walked in silence, taking in the city streets and the quiet feel of each other. They didn’t need to say much. Most communication between people doesn’t happen with words anyway; it’s the gentle brushing of shoulders, a warm smile, a stolen glance, a skimming of fingertips. Body language was the score to conversation’s music.

 

Jenny knew she had been right in the restaurant. He was different. He wasn’t necessarily reserved, or withdrawn. Only… patient, as if he had all the time in the world.

 

At Lallybroch, they were comfortable in a flirty back-and-forth, trying to be carefree with each other. Their shared obligation to the orchard was prioritized over their relationship, always interfering, creating natural distance between the two of them. The business was an unavoidable part of their dynamic, a perpetual third wheel, a cooler. A constant presence.

 

She looked around herself, taking in the French architecture she had been dreaming about for nearly twenty years, the buildings gleaming yellow in the light of the streetlamps. Here, in Paris, it was just them. No orchard in sight. That held a weight that she couldn’t quite name, shifting their dynamic into a new gear.

 

A test - that’s what the past few hours felt like. A test to see if their relationship was sustainable outside its natural environment of the highlands. Jenny took a deep breath to steady herself against the tingling, anti-gravity feeling in her limbs. She even resisted the urge to cross herself, an old Catholic habit when faced with the mystical nature of inevitability.

 

They were acing this test. In Paris, of all places.

 

Crossing a bridge, they came to a stop and leaned on the rail to look into the water. City light rippled gently across the river in some places, swallowed it in others. It was pleasantly quiet and easy for a metropolitan Monday evening.

 

She looked away from the water, her eyes searching for Ian.

 

He might be too plain to some, but she knew every inch of his face, and she - well - she adored it. She could read his expressions like a second language; she knew when he was angry but didn’t want to admit it, she knew when he was playful or lazy, she knew when he was guarded or smug. It was a hard-won intimacy, to be able to read emotions by glance alone, earned during her lifelong friendship with him.

 

The look he was giving her now, though, was one that she couldn’t place. Something new. Had she caught glimpses of it before, in the office, maybe the truck bed? She studied him carefully, trying to decipher it, as he came close. His eyes darted back and forth between hers, like he was trying to read her expression, too.

 

“What? Ye’re looking at me all wild-eyed.”

 

He didn’t answer, looking away from her towards the river. The only evidence of tension was in the way he clasped his hands. Not unsympathetically, Jenny stepped forward and wrapped an arm around his waist, resting her head on his shoulder, giving in to the simple desire to touch him.

 

“Do ye know how to do this?” she asked, the fabric of the shirt on his shoulder scraping against her chin.

 

“No.” He laughed, and she laughed with him.

 

“No?” She clicked her tongue at him. “You don’t have anything you want to say to me?”

 

He coughed, avoiding eye contact. “No.”

 

“You sure?” She squeezed him. “It seems like you have something you want to say.”

 

He considered this a moment. “If I did, what do you think I would say?”

 

She shrugged. “That’s not for me to guess. Ye could have a million thoughts in that head of yours.”

 

“Try to guess, then.”

 

“Hm.” She pressed her face into his shoulder, the rail of the bridge cold against her hip through the fabric of her dress. “Well, mayhap ye'd complain about how the city smells, or the fact that it's muggy and crowded. Maybe your dinner was cold--”

 

“Yikes, ye dinna have a very high opinion of me, do you?”

 

“--or how the company sucks,” she teased. She gave him a cheesy grin and pulled away, or tried to.

 

With a soft laugh, Ian had caught her wrists and pulled her into him. A nervous chuckle escaped her, but she was thankful for the embrace. He swayed, holding her against him. The view of the city and the river disappeared as she hid her face in his chest. Her palms slid down his back, coming to rest in the back pockets of his jeans. Reliable Ian.

 

He spoke, and she could feel his voice reverberate in his chest. “Alright, then. Since ye’ve  _forced_  me to correct all your wild assumptions. Tch.” He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, tucked comfortably beneath his chin. “One, the city doesna stink. At least not as much as I thought it might. Two, it  _is_  crowded, but I dinna find that matters much. Three, my dinner was delicious - as was yours - and four…” He traced his thumb down the curve of her spine, then held her hip. “Four,” he emphasized, “the company is the best part.”

 

“The best part?” she asked, double checking, not looking up.

 

“Mm-hm,” he hummed.

 

“Ye sure it’s not just the romantic ambience of Paris that’s confusing you?”

 

“Och, Jen,” he chuckled and held her away from him as if just to see her again, but stayed connected with her with his hands on her arms. “Certainly not. I told ye before - I know what I want already.”

 

Feigning ignorance, she tilted her head in challenge. “And what is it that ye want, then, Ian?”

 

“Can’t ye tell?”

 

She narrowed her eyes, deciding to tease him into a broader confession. He’d get there. “I ken ye bought me dinner, thanks for that by the way, but that’s all I get for the romantic declaration? ‘Can’t ye tell’? Ye  _do_ realize that I can see the top of the Eiffel Tower just there?” She pointed in the direction. “This is a situation most women only dream of finding themselves in.”

 

“Och, that’s what’s wrong with it, though,” he said, incredulous.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“Janet - Jen. Ye ken well enough what I’ve been up to.”

 

She smiled. “And that is…”

 

“Ye’re really gonna make me say it?”

 

Her smile widened. “Yes, I am.”

 

He scoffed but his expression turned warm, tender. “Fine. But I don’t do romance.”

 

Jenny hummed contentedly, thinking quite the opposite.

 

He ran a hand through his hair as if he were reaching up to fiddle with his hat, forgetting it wasn’t there. He wanted to tell her everything, and looked rather ruffled. She reached for him, and he came into her arms.

 

“When Jamie offered me the position at Lallybroch, I didn’t even think twice about it. I knew I had to come back.”

 

“Why’s that?”

 

“He said you were there, that you might need help. You had just lost your father and had a business to run. I knew I could help support you, and I felt… a pull back to Lallybroch. I couldna explain it if I tried. Only that I missed ye fiercely, even as I didna want ye to know what had become of me.” She squirmed in his arms as if to protest, but he shushed her. “I didna mean it like that, I ken I’m capable. Anyway.” He sighed.

 

“I pull into Lallybroch, and there ye are on the porch, your hair long, wearing the same dress you are now. I hadn’t seen ye in years--”

 

“I  _know_ \--”

 

“--and you were just…. Ye caught me off guard - something you continue to do! I threw myself into the orchard, searching for some line of concentration to focus on. Something to think about that wasna  _you._  But then,” he hugged her to him tight, “you get drunk, and ye badger me, and I take ye home, and ye badger me some more--”

 

“Badger isna a very nice way to put it--”

 

“--and I think, well, here she is, Ian, --”

 

“--only drunk and topless in your bed--”

 

“--it’s everything ye ever thought ye wanted!” Jenny stiffened in her surprise, and Ian let out a long breath. He rubbed her back, and she was uncertain whether he was trying to soothe her or himself.

 

She leaned back so she could peer up at him, unsuccessfully holding back a satisfied laugh. “Everything?”

 

He idly touched her hair. “Like I said, I knew I could help the orchard. But I came back for you. I came to Lallybroch just to see-- just to… try.” He cupped her cheeks. “You have always been special to me, even when we were kids. I think I knew, even then, that I wanted - this - to happen.”

 

He leaned forward to kiss her, soft and slow, languid. A spark shot through Jenny, and a whimper nearly escaped her when he finally pulled away. He pressed his forehead to hers, their noses touching, breath mingling.

 

“If someone saw us like this…” Jenny teased.

 

“It’s Paris. They’re probably used to it.” His eyes were shadowed, and Jenny was unable to discern their color.

 

“Ian,” she sighed, and bumped her nose against his. “Do you want me to confess, too?”

 

“Tch. No.”

 

“ _No?_ ” she gasped. “Ye dinna have any interest in what I might say to ye after that?” She staggered back, away from him.

 

He laughed and swiped to grab her, but she skipped backwards. “ _You_  are the one that needed romance, no’ me.”

 

“Oh, okay.” She placed her hands on her hips. “So, if I said that I’ve felt that same, that I’ve known since we were  _wee bairns_  that I wanted ye, that wouldna change anything for you one bit?” She smiled, thinking about how he had cared for her ankle at the railroad tracks long ago.

 

Even in the darkness, she detected his blush, and grinned at him, triumphant. But he was grinning, too. He roped his arm around her neck and pulled her against his side as he began walking towards the hotel. Ian pressed a kiss to her temple.

 

“See, the thing is,” he said, his lips in her hair, “I already knew that - probably before you did.”


	17. Cider

They exchanged few words on the walk to the hotel, comfortable silence slowly transforming into a tingling of anticipation and excitement.

Lingering touches continuously tethered the two of them together. His arm around her shoulders, hers around his waist. Their touches grew more deliberate, urgent; their kisses more frequent and more purposeful.

At the final crosswalk, one such kiss left Jenny stunned and breathless. She hadn’t noticed the walk signal until after Ian released her and pulled her into the street. The awning and automatic doors of their hotel were in sight, rich purple, gold, and black in the yellow of streetlamps.

Giddiness rippled through her, and judging from how tightly Ian clasped her hand, he recognized it. His grip was firm, as if a part of him considered this too good to be true, frightened she would pull away. She stared openly at him as he led her forward, seeing how his dark hair curled around his neck and ears, how his shoulders shaped his black tee.

Jenny’s mind was spinning. They were together. It didn’t seem real.

But dammit, someone was in the elevator with them, and their hands broke apart. It was an old man, hunched inside a brown coat. Jenny and Ian stood apart, leaning against the back wall of the elevator, not touching, hardly breathing.

She glanced at Ian in the mirror-- she wanted out of the elevator, into the room. In the reflection, she saw color flood her cheeks. Ian’s cheeks were flushed, too, his eyes bright.

The elevator dinged and the man stepped out. No sooner had the doors closed before Ian wrapped her in his arms, pressing his lips against hers.

“Ian,” she gasped, shifting her head away from him. Without missing a beat, he buried his face in her shoulder while his hands gripped her behind. “Wait.”

“What’s up, Jen?”

They exited the elevator and walked quickly down the hallway, red patterned carpet plush under their feet.

“Have ye--” Her voice squeaked, and he gave her a look out of the corner of his eye. She cleared her throat and tried again, quieter now, conscious of the doors they walked by. “I got tested a few days ago,” she stated, trying to keep her voice casual.

“Oh?” He didn’t look at her, but Jenny thought she saw him smile a bit as he joked, “That’s great. Gets me in the mood.”

“Och, c’mon,” she laughed awkwardly. “I just thought-- I mean I figured-- instead of in the moment-- er, I want ye to know that I’m… healthy.” She grimaced, thankful they had reached the room and she could turn her back to him as she unlocked the door. She tapped the key card against the lock and it turned over with a click.

Before Jenny could turn the handle, Ian pressed himself against her. She gasped in surprise, his form solid and strong behind her. She shivered as he brushed his lips against her ear. “Me too,” he whispered, gently kissing her neck.

She snorted a laugh as she met his gaze over her shoulder, freeing herself from his touch by opening the door. She flicked on a single lamp and slipped off her shoes, avoiding Ian’s gaze as the door latched behind him. With purpose, she walked towards the bed and sat on the edge, pulling the skirt of her dress tight across her lap, tucking her hands beneath her thighs. She watched him as he sat in a chair opposite her and took off his boots. His work boots, the ones he wore at the orchard, scrubbed clean of dust and dirt. She sucked in a breath and waited.

Ian looked down, leaning back in his chair, crossing an ankle onto a knee. “When was the last…?” He waved a hand in the air.

“The last what?”

He waved his hand again as if she was supposed to translate the movement into a question. He nodded towards her, then the bed. “Mmphm?”

She flushed. “Oh, that.”

“It’s really no’ any of my business,” he said, “I’m just curious.”

“You’re curious?” she replied, her voice a little terse. Then she rolled her eyes, shifting her hands beneath her legs. “I haven’t ‘mmphm,’ as you so elegantly put it, in… a while,” she finished lamely.

A smile broadened his face in response, and he uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “Guess what?” he said playfully. “Neither have I.”

She snorted with amusement, crossing her arms over her chest. “Christ.”

She wanted to seem cool, casual, but it was impossible. The truth was, her body was humming. She wanted to kiss him, to feel him against her, to touch him everywhere. She studied his face, and the corners of his lips turned up, as if he could read her mind. Seconds passed - long ones - and still he didn’t move from the chair.

She tossed a hand through her hair and gave an over-exaggerated sigh. “Well, it’s been a long day. It’s about time I went to sleep.” She made to get up as Ian stood and crept towards her.

“Hm.”

With a featherlight touch, he brushed his fingertips over her bare knees, traced up her outer thigh. The hem of her dress caught in his hands, and the fabric whispered up her legs to her hips.

His lips grazed across her cheek, her ear, down her neck, his open mouth sending flames over her skin; she tilted her head to the side, encouraging the touch. Her hands slid up his arms to his shoulders, curling in his hair.

“Sleep later,” he murmured against her shoulder. Over her dress, his hands drifted up and down her sides, a paintbrush gliding across a canvas.

“Okay,” she laughed, butterflies unfurling in a bright, fluttering cloud in her chest.

Slowly, he bent and kissed her lips. He was utterly patient, no sense of concern or haste. They didn’t have to worry about the interruptions, complications, or obligations of the orchard; things were simpler, more refined. They didn’t speak, they didn’t hurry or rush. They let the kiss be long, slow, luxurious.

His hand slipped under her collar and he pushed a sleeve out of the way, tugging her dress and the strap of her bra down her arm, bending down to kiss her shoulder. She inhaled - he smelled of nighttime air, soap, Lallybroch apples; he hummed and flicked his tongue against her skin. She sensed a luscious daze settling around them as she opened her knees and he stepped between them.

His hand wandered from her shoulder to her chest, lightly skimming over the tops of her breasts, a finger slipping beneath her bra to touch her there. He pressed small kisses here and there, his movements like light rippling across the water at the bridge. She leaned back, her palms sinking into the lush bed covers, and he yanked down her bra, kissed her nipple, sending a rush of heat through her body.

He lifted her knees and pressed her back into the mattress, holding himself over her, between her legs. The mattress gave under their bodies, the down blanket beneath them soft against Jenny’s bare shoulders. She hooked a foot around his left ankle and angled her hips against his.

With exaggeration, he fell on top of her, his weight solid and comforting. She laughed and pushed up at his shoulders, meeting his eye. They looked at each other for a long moment, breathing quickly.

“Hi,” she whispered, planting a kiss on his nose.

He said nothing, only smiled and ground his hips against hers; still in his jeans, the pressure, the feel of him, was sharp and pleasing. Christ, she ached. She wanted to rush, to sprint towards the finale, and while the trembling in his shoulders suggested he might feel that way, too, he was slow, deliberate. He slid an arm under her back, the other in her hair, wrapping himself around her. He held her tightly for a moment, keeping still.

His eyes followed his hand as it slid out of her hair and down her body, following the line of her neck, the curve of her breast, the groove of ribs. She held her breath as he looked her over, his fingers low on her hips, her thighs, purposefully teasing and playing with her. A barely there touch, a promise.

He bent and kissed between her breasts, unfastening one, two, three, four, buttons. He took his time, nipping every inch of newly exposed skin - button, kiss, button, bite - the entire way down, allowing the dress to fall open. Eventually, she felt his teeth graze the top of her thigh, the final star on a tingling constellation that spread down her body. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she took a breath-- then-- her bra popped open. Jenny let out a squeak of surprise and lifted her head to look at him.

He ran a palm over her chest, trying to memorize the shape and feel of her. “Front clasp,” Ian remarked appreciatively, almost apologizing for the unceremonious unfastening.

He cupped her breast, rubbed his fingertips over her nipple, cupped her again, giving her a gentle squeeze. A small moan escaped her throat. Detecting it, he looked up at her, did it once more. Her heart fluttered; with increasing urgency, he kissed across her chest, flicked a tongue lightly over her nipple, teasing her. She sucked in air and her hands went through his hair, holding him to her.

His hand traced up her thigh; taunting, deliberate, wisping inward and sailing out. She wanted to writhe and push against him, but she forced herself to stay still. She stared up at the ceiling, enjoying the anticipation of it, overwhelmed by the sense of him.

Then he swept a finger up and in, pressing against her with one swift movement.

She made a noise, and he looked up, watching her react, studying her.

“Like that?” he murmured, pressing a relatively chaste kiss to her lips, slowly beginning to massage her.

“Yes,” she gasped. His mouth was soft and warm, and she wanted more, to hold on to the thrill gathering at the base of her spine.

She hadn’t realized just how sensitive, how responsive her skin could be. And his-- she had kissed his lips, his jaw, his neck when they were within reach, but Ian was more focused on other parts of her, often moving out of her reach, his touches measuring, testing, responding to her reactions.

She whimpered when he peeled away from her and stood, the sudden absence of his weight making her feel incomplete, cold. He yanked his black shirt over his head, tossing it to the floor, and she quickly discarded her dress and bra.

Before he could lean back over her, she ran her hands over his stomach, painting circular patterns with her fingertips. She pressed a kiss to the spots she outlined, briefly flicking her tongue against the skin there. Her stomach swooped, and her hands drifted to his belt. It jingled as she unclasped it, and she slipped her hands inside his pants, taking the measure of his hips, the tops of his thighs, with a soft caress.

She looked up at him with a small smirk as she flattened her palm over his boxers. She would savor this, she would memorize how goosebumps followed her fingertips across his midriff, how he trembled as she moved her hand.  

He said nothing, standing stock still, as if afraid he would move too quickly if he tried to budge an inch. Finally, she brought his boxers down and wrapped her hand around him, stroking him - Christ, he seemed to grow more solid at her touch - and he let out an involuntary groan, stopping himself as if embarrassed.

She almost laughed. Here they were, lifelong friends, feeling shy in the light of new discoveries, overwhelmed by awe and excitement. Both of them trembled like teenagers, terrified of making a mistake. They walked tenuous ground; while they were long past the point of no return, something else pressed in on them.

She sensed the future as it lurked in the corners of the hotel room; it was a welcome guest. This was Ian. Reliable Ian. What he felt, he meant. What he thought, he shared. He still stood before her, and God - Christ! - he was beautiful. She lost her breath and kissed his midriff, as if he were a life source that would restore regular breathing, and rested her forehead on his stomach.

With an exhale, his hands gripped her shoulders tight, nudging her back. He bent to kiss her, deep and deliberate, as if he had felt the room tilt askew, too. He shook out of his pants and socks as she sat at the edge of the bed, waiting for his next move. She caught a glimpse of his prosthetic foot in the lamplight before he grabbed her and tossed her back, landing on top of her and kneeing her thighs apart, settling between them.

He was quick and contagious in his excitement. He grasped her forearms and pinned them above her head, his bare chest flush with hers, warm and solid, her breasts pressed up against him. His mouth met hers, once, twice, and the third time was hard and fast as he ground his hips against her. She cried out, and he hummed in response.

Then his lips were gone from hers. He moved down her body, flicking his tongue across her nipple, trailing his fingertips along her side. He kissed along the sweep of her hips, bit down on the skin below her navel; she winced.

He responded immediately, looking up at her. “That was too hard?”

She propped herself up on her elbows and smiled shyly at him, feeling a little embarrassed; she hadn’t wanted him to notice. “Maybe.”

He kissed the spot gently and swiped a thumb over it, wiping away the sting. “I left a mark, I’m sorry.” He kissed her again and she lay back, flat before him.

“I don’t mind marks,” she said to the ceiling, trying to keep her voice casual as his fingers danced over her hips, sending shivers down her spine. “Be gentle, but you can-- you can leave marks if you-- if you want.”

He went still for a moment, then he hooked his hands into the waistband of her panties, slipping them down only an inch. “Maybe next time,” he replied in a light tone.

Jenny blew out a breath, then sat up on her elbows again so she could look at him.

“Ian,” she said quietly. “I want you to. Mark me.”

He glanced up, surprised. “Ye want me to?”

Her whole body seemed to vibrate as anticipation hummed through her. “Yes.”

“Okay,” he replied with an impish grin. “Where?”

Her pulse raced. “Mm. Where would you put it?” Her fingers idly played with the down comforter beneath them, soft to the touch, conscious of how his gaze roved over her.  

“No, Jen. You pick.”

His commanding tone caused her to flush, but she raised her eyebrows at him.

“Here.” She pointed to a spot on her left breast.

He lunged for her, and she laughed as he tackled her around the ribs, his lips immediately finding the spot. He sucked at the skin, hard, and she squeaked.

“That’ll do it,” he said, returning to his spot at her hips. This time he made no ceremony of taking off her panties. She lifted her hips to help him and they slid down and off her legs. Excitement ripped through her, and she reached for him, to pull him to her, to get on with it---

But then he slid off the bed, kneeling on the floor; he grabbed her hips and jerked her to the edge of the mattress.

She let out an exclamation of surprise - and then - fuck - his mouth was on her. “Ian-- what are you--” She made to sit up, but a firm hand was placed to her chest, pressing her down. She drew in a sharp breath as he responded to her with a flick of the tongue, soft and hot, the promising touch of fingers.

“Oh god,” she breathed. She ran a hand through his hair, moving her hips against him as his tongue moved up and down, in and out, pressing against her clit. As he moved faster, slowly rubbing a finger against her, she reached behind her, gripping the covers tightly.

“Ian.” She said his name once, twice as he gently pushed a finger into her, sliding in and out as he delicately sucked on her. A pressure built inside of her, threatening to expand past the edges of her skin, to overwhelm her entirely. But Ian slowed, kissed her thigh, her hip. He came up, his hands resting on either side of her shoulders as he pressed a deep kiss to her mouth.

He was hard against her leg, and she reached down to stroke him, hot and strong in her hands.

He nipped at her earlobe as his hand went between her thighs. She pressed her forehead to his, letting out a quiet moan, pushing herself against his hand. In a breath, he lifted himself off of her, made for the dresser and hastily grabbed his toiletries bag. Unzipping it quickly, he withdrew gold foil and tore it open.

“Hey,” Jenny called. She waved a hand. “There’s no need.”

“You’re sure?”

“I am.”

“And birth control?”

“ _Ian_. Yes. Of course. Now would ye like to get on wi’ it?” She patted the mattress with her palm.  

In a flash, he was on top of her, knocking her flat to the bed, kneeing apart her thighs once more and angling her towards the pillows. Jenny snorted, amused and flattered by his eagerness.

They held each other for a moment, breathing together, and she drew lazy circles onto his sides, feeling for each of his ribs. His cock throbbed between them, but they waited.

On an exhale, his breath hot against her, he buried his face in her neck. He nuzzled against her, and she traced her fingers down his spine. Reliable Ian. Then his tongue swiped up her throat. He _licked_ her.

She laughed, playfully pushing him off her and wiping at the wet trail of saliva he had left behind. “Ew...”

He laughed, too, and gave her a quick, smiling kiss.

Then, in a synchronized movement, as if they had done this a million times, they shifted to align their bodies. Even at the slightest touch, she let out a small moan, her skin prickling. He kissed her cheeks, then her collarbone, then the mark he had left earlier, now flowering into a deep red on her flushed chest. Her hands curled at the nape of his neck, feeling the softness of his thick, dark hair.

He rotated his hips, pressing against her, very slightly, drawing out a gasp from her. She lifted her own hips against him.

“Please,” Jenny sighed through gritted teeth, her body taut as a live wire.

He chuckled. “You’re bossy.”

He pressed against her, and Jenny thought the world might stop; she wasn’t sure if either of them breathed as he slid into her.

“You okay?”

She only nodded, her breathing uneven.

He moved out, paused, then in again. Slow. Out, then in. His hand rejoined his other in her hair, leaning in for a kiss. The world might be moving, but surely time had slowed down, allowing her to take in every single moment, like an archive of photographs, a film strip.

They began to rock together, gentle, rippling movements and touches and tender kisses as they got used to the feel of each other.

He kissed her mouth, sucked her bottom lip into his. He tasted like the salt of faint sweat, and Jenny licked it off his upper lip, causing him to chuckle at her, his breath shaky as he moved faster, harder.

His hand untangled itself from her hair and slid down her throat, down her breast and side as they moved together. Her back began to arch as she lifted her hips to meet him on each thrust.

Her hands swept across his back, marveling at the feel of taut muscle beneath. Gripping his hips, she wanted to own how he felt, to memorize how he utterly surrounded her. She felt his buttocks move up and down while one of his arms came up beneath her knee to hold her leg up, opening her hips.

Jenny let out a sharp gasp, her hand flying up to touch his chest, lightly tracing over his nipples. He shuddered, pushing into her harder, the bed knocking into the wall behind them. She leaned up to kiss him, feeling the world fall away, empty of everything but the two of them at that moment, together. This was how it was meant to be.

Ian took a nipple into his mouth and sucked it, his tongue flicking hard against it. She gripped his behind, pressing him into her, each thrust sending waves through her body, each wave becoming stronger than the last.

Her whole body flushed and ached against him. Concentration slipped through her fingertips, and she was forced to simply be, governed by something beyond herself.

She took the sheets in a fist, holding tight to the quivering vibration of her nerves as he leaned up, pushed her legs out, gripping the insides of her thighs. His muscles rippled while he moved, and she trailed her fingers along his stomach, following the pattern in the movements.

He thrust deep and held her hips, keeping her from wiggling. He leaned down and whispered into her ear. “Touch yourself, hm?”

She reached down, and he watched her, his eyes glowing and warm, his body flushed and his movements wild. Her hips lifted with each stroke, faster, harder; he let go of her legs and she hooked her ankles around his back.

Her world twisted and tightened, and she was shot into one of those moments where she felt suspended on a tightrope -- she had lost all breath, time had stopped, the planet frozen in its orbit, there was no gravity or oxygen here -- and then she was in a free fall, and she cried out a gasp with the sudden release from suspension, the sudden swoop of her stomach, the blaze of a fire.

When Ian collapsed on top of her, pressing into her with a few final thrusts, she cupped his face and pulled his mouth to hers, determined to steal a kiss for the last moment. She could feel sensation ripple through his muscles and over his skin, a swirling, tingling electricity, bathed with light from within.

She kissed his shoulder, flicking her tongue over the tang of sweat there. The air around them burned, their bodies damp and clinging. They lay together like that for a while, hearts thudding against each other, breathing fast.

This was how it was supposed to be. And, oh god, she was in love with him.

“Hm.  _Mo nighean dubh_ ,” he murmured into her cheek, brushing the hair off her face. He had only called her that once before, when their bodies had eagerly tangled themselves together on the couch in Lallybroch’s office.  _My black-haired lass._  The pads of his fingers whispered down her side, and she shivered from the tickle.

Her hands traced down his back, massaging the muscle, finding the notches of his spine, the ridges of his ribs. She pressed a kiss to his temple and hugged him tight, not quite ready to leave the burning ember of afterglow.


	18. Root

 

When Jenny woke, it was deep in the night.

With an exasperated sigh, she rubbed her palms over her face, the nameless tension that roused her sitting heavy beneath her ribcage, spreading into her belly. She could feel its tendrils curl and uncurl in her stomach.

She thought she would sleep better with Ian so near, but now her heart sank. That didn’t turn out to be the case.

Was it worse?

The tension left her feeling off balance, as if she were clinging to the rail of a boat, dangerously tilted to the side. Jenny frowned and began to massage her face, attempting to press away the weight of grogginess and anxiety.

Trying to get her bearings, she rolled over to check the time on her phone, but it wasn’t on the bedside table. _Oh right_ , she remembered, she’d left it in her purse. She glanced across the dark room to where she knew her purse sat on the floor by her shoes. But the _bed_ \-- she pulled the white sheet over her shoulders, tucked it beneath her chin, nestled into her pillow-- the bed was safe, and her middle was tight with anxiety. The hour didn’t matter, she reasoned.

She was facing Ian’s back when she looked to him. She could see his bare shoulders, hear his light snores. He hadn’t dressed, and neither had she, so the sheet was smooth and cool against her bare skin. She dimly noted that the comforter had fallen off the mattress. Reflexively, she reached a hand out to touch the space between Ian’s shoulder blades, but stopped herself at the last moment.

She wanted Ian’s attention - his touch, his conversation, a comfortable silence, it didn’t matter. Whatever had woken her made her need him. She lay still and studied the curve of his spine, how his hair curled at the back of his neck, questioning whether she had the right to rouse him. Deciding against it, she sighed.

Her mind flashed to being a kid, swimming in a loch with Ian and friends. On shore he put a worm in her sandal, had laughed and thrown dirt at her when she squealed about it. As young teens, they had gone for a bike ride alone together, leaving an ill Jamie behind. They had leaned their bikes against chevron signs at a curve in the dirt road and wandered into a field in search of wild strawberries. She could recall with perfect accuracy the way he had looked at her; it was the first time she ever sensed a boy wanting to kiss her.

Absently, her hand wandered to the sheet covering her breast and touched the mark he had made; a mark given to her, when she had asked him to.

She had known, of course, that she loved him. She’d known for a long time. But she had never admitted it to herself, too often and too quickly dismissing the strength of their connection with the excuse of a lifelong friendship.

She gave an unamused snort at the crass thought that it had taken sex for her to recognize it.

Even this summer, when she knew he was actively pursuing her, she hadn’t confronted - not really - what Ian meant to her. He had always been a companion, someone she could count on to care for her, to support her, to make her laugh…

She found herself confessing her worries to the dark. Now that they were together - were they together? - what if they didn’t work out? Would their friendship be ruined forever, and would she lose him twice over - lose her lover, _and_ her childhood friend?

Jenny rolled onto her back and exhaled, her gaze tracing how the lights of the city seeped through the drawn curtains, creating a pattern of light and shadow across the ceiling. Still asleep, Ian rolled onto his back, an arm thrown above his head. Jenny blinked, slowly, looking him over, not quite believing he was real even as she wanted to curl into him, to tangle her legs with his, to hold him -- but she didn’t move.

This city - Paris - she had wanted to visit for years. She had planned to live here, to make a home out of its lights and architecture. But suddenly the city crowded in on her. Paris didn’t feel how she thought it would, she realized. It felt self-indulgent, distracting. Artificial. She had the orchard to worry about; she had employees and family legacy to care for-- surely, if the orchard went under, Mrs. Crook, Joseph, the new staff-- they would all be out of a job and only Jenny to blame… She was selfish to try and escape to France instead of staying in Scotland to tend to family affairs.

Ian shifted his weight in the bed and rolled towards her. Still sleeping, one long arm reached for her and draped over her body.

Relief swept through her, and she relaxed under his touch, the anxiety melting away. She didn’t feel the need to get up and wander around as she might have at the farmhouse. The rise and fall of his chest, the sound of his breath, his touch, all an assurance that her heart could live in many places at once.

She woke again suddenly, realizing with surprise that she had drifted asleep. Every nerve drawn taut with the sharp pain of grief, the weight of it flattening her chest.

In an instant she rolled away, curling up with her back to Ian, her cheek pressed to the edge of the mattress. She stared at the white wall, seeing instead how her mother had once kneeled at her bedside the last time she had cried in a hotel room in Paris. She felt the brush of her mother’s palm over her hair, the soothing murmur of her voice, comfort washing over her when she had wept from homesickness for Da and exhaustion from sightseeing.

She had missed his humor, the sound of her father’s voice over the dinner table, hearing his footsteps on the stairs as she drifted to sleep in her room. And, oh, god. She missed those things now as much as she had then. But - _Da is not back at the orchard - and Mam is not here for comfort - even Jamie is on the other side of the ocean._

Hot tears welled in her eyes and spilled over onto her cheeks. She fought against the grief and loss calling her but finally broke into silent sobs, burying her face in her pillow, trying not to wake Ian. God, she was so, so tired.

Ian’s weight shifted in the bed and she froze, her breath catching mid-sob. She wished she could disappear into the mattress.

“Jen?” Ian placed his palm on her shoulder. His touch, like his voice, was gentle as it limbered out of sleep. “What’s wrong?”

Her mouth and throat were dry, but she forced herself to speak. “I miss my Da,” she confessed, tears coming fast.

In one movement, Ian came to her, cradling her against the curve of his body. In his arms, she turned to him, the floodgates opened wide, and she wept. He murmured comforting words and pressed kisses into her hair, holding her tightly. He asked no more questions, made no arguments. And she clung to him, giving in to the grief she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in over a year.

When she quieted, at last, she pulled away from him and wiped at her face, her nose. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“What are ye sorry for?” he asked.

“I didna mean to fall apart.” She briskly wiped at what she knew was a batch of her tears on his shoulder.

He brushed the hair back from her face and ran a thumb over her cheekbone. “Never apologize for grieving,” he said softly. Jenny could see a small reflection of the light from the window in the corner of his eye, see the outline of his jaw and curve of his nose. She cracked a small smile, just like he knew she would. He moved even closer to her, and she let him press their bodies together, sinking into him. “Would ye want to maybe talk about it?”

She nearly drew away but wiped at a leftover tear instead. “Talk about it?”

“Mm.”

The low light in the room seemed to cast a magical haze over them, and Jenny closed her eyes, feeling for the sense of it. She breathed out an exhale. “Hasna been easy.”

A sound of agreement from Ian, made low in this throat.

She didn’t speak again for several moments, but Ian did. “I’m sorry I wasna there when it happened.”

“Ye dinna need to apologize.” She meant it.

“Jenny,” he said. “Yes, I do. Ye needed me.” He gently touched her face.

She flinched away. “Tch. I dinna need--” As soon as she said it, she regretted it.

Ian withdrew his hand and inched back enough to make them come apart. “Dinna need who, Janet? Me?”

She grasped his arms. “I’m sorry. I didna mean it like that.”

He was silent, compelling her to speak more. “When Da died” --and her throat caught on the last word-- “I was the only one able to pick up the pieces. Jamie, he-- well, he was around, ye ken, but no more than usual, if that makes sense. I could rely on him, but he wouldna take on any tasks unless I delegated. I had to be in charge.”

Ian listened intently, one of his hands idly played in tresses of her hair.

“I was in a daze, I think. Arranging what to do with the body, planning the memorial. I had to be the one to do it. I was the one who signed all the papers.”

In her hands, she could see the clipboard in the white light of fluorescents, the hospital room, the orderlies waiting to wheel the body of her father away to the morgue. Her hands shook, and she relived the numb, icy anger she had felt in her shock. “Of course Da didna arrange it ahead of time,” she snorted.

“And what ye often don’ realize,” she said, “is that after someone dies, their belongings are still around.” She swallowed, seeing it all again. Her voice was low as she recalled those few moments after spreading Brian’s ashes to rest under the Fraser family tree.

“After the memorial,” she went on, “I went back inside the house. All I could think of was how hungry I felt, how relieved. But then, I looked around. The farmhouse was a mess. I hadn’t cleaned anything. Take-out containers were everywhere, the trash was full. The worst, though,” she said, “was when I had to go through Da’s things. Not that - well - his things are obviously still in the farmhouse, but I dinna like to touch them or move them. Not the things that aren’t in the way, anyhow. But he had a cabinet full of medicine I had to dispose of, a bed to make. Ye’d think, or ye’d hope,” she amended, “that when someone dies, the remnants of their life vanish. Or at least that they’d be tidy.”

He held her close, buried his face in her hair. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, and she thought, as she placed a hand on his chest, that he felt the grief, too.

“Do you miss Da?” she asked.

Tucked into him, she felt him nod. “Of course.” He ran a thumb down her shoulder blade, and said nothing else, though she felt his shoulders shiver briefly.

“I miss my Mam, too, ye know?” she whispered, and everything begged to pour out of her.

“Is this why ye don’t sleep?” he asked. “You’re thinking of yer parents?”

“Oh.” She considered this a moment, finding herself unable to recall the last time she had a full night’s sleep. “I suppose so.” She reached for his hand and intertwined their fingers. “Night’s just...miserable.” She grimaced. “Canna explain it. Would rather face it awake than vulnerable.”

“Vulnerable?”

“Yes.” She squeezed his hand with her fingers. “‘If I wake before dawn, I control the day,’” she quoted quietly, but with confidence.

“Ye wrote that.” It wasn’t a question.

She shrugged.

“What prompted it?”

“A magician never reveals her secrets,” she said stoutly.

“Lucky for me, ye’re no magician,” he chuckled, dropping his head on his pillow. “What do ye mean by it?”

She laughed, too, and unclasped their hands to brush away the hair at his temple. “It’s silly.”

“It’s not.”

With a sigh, she leaned back on her own pillow, turning her face to look at him. The sheet was tangled around her waist, and he rested his palm on the smooth skin beneath her breasts. She was silent a moment before she spoke, trying to read his features in the darkness of the room. She could discern nothing, only a quiet earnestness emanating from him. “There’s something about the night, where I canna see anything,” she confessed. “The outside world is closed off from me. It’s only me.” Ian’s fingers tapped lightly against her stomach. “I am forced to reflect on myself, my life. And don’t ye think,” she pressed on, her voice coming louder, “it’s ridiculous that people think we’re supposed to have everything figured out? I want to be a kid again, just for a moment. To not have all this weight on my shoulders.”

“Me, too.”

She snorted.

“Ye dinna think so?” he asked. “You get to be a kid, and I don’t? That’s not very fair. Ye’re older than me.”

Jenny laughed and playfully shoved his shoulder. “That’s not what I mean, ye dolt.”

He gave a low sound of amusement, almost a laugh.  

“I don’t want ye to think I hate Lallybroch, or that I’m not grateful to ye for your gift, for bringing me here,” she said into the darkness.

“I wouldn’t ever think that,” he responded.

“It’s only...” She trailed off, frowning, and glanced at him. He lay on his side, looking at her, lightly stroking her ribs. The negative feelings faded farther and farther away. “I’m still figuring out what I want. Where I want to be, what I want to be doing.”

“Me too,” he said and pressed a kiss to her temple.

“No way,” she replied. “Ye told me already what ye want.”

“Mm-hm. Remind me again what I said I wanted?” He reached for her and pulled her towards him in a tight embrace; she squeaked and tried to wriggle free. At last, he placed a playful, sloppy kiss on her mouth before releasing her and rolling away, leaving her slightly dazed.

“Sorry about this, Janet, but I forgot to...” He sat up, his legs over the side of the bed, his back to her. He flicked on the lamp by his side, then bent down like he was reaching for something.

Jenny took a moment to admire the way the muscles of his bare back moved in the yellow lamplight, and then-- “Oh,” she blurted. His prosthesis, of course. He had told her once that he took it off to sleep.

He cast a brief, hesitant glance over his shoulder at her. But he quickly softened, grinning. “I’ll show ye,” he said.

She gave him a pleasant look and edged closer to him, laying on her stomach alongside him. Because she was invited to do so, she openly stared at the prosthesis in the light.

Attached below the knee, it was simply a mechanical extension of his leg. A grey synthetic cylinder was contoured to look like a calf, with a metal rod extending from the bottom into a black pump for an ankle joint, with a flesh-colored, plastic foot.

“Is it okay that ye slept in it? How does it work?”

“It’s no’ a problem that I fell asleep. Tch. It’s just not recommended for the whole night.” He paused for a second, then glanced over at her. “What do ye think?”

“What do I think?” she repeated.

He waited, tapping two fingers against the prosthesis, one then the other, over and over.

“I think it makes you, you.”

He barked a laugh, and she grinned broadly at him.

Ian’s attention went to his leg again, rolling the stretchy cloth of an attached suspension sleeve down his thigh, onto and over the prosthesis. With a surety that came from a few years practice, he withdrew his leg from the socket and set it aside, the sleeve hanging limply over it. His limb wasn’t naked like she expected, instead wearing a nylon liner. It was a bit odd, she admitted, to see his leg come to a stop about halfway down his calf. Her initial surprise faded as he rolled the nylon liner off, and then rolled down another that looked like gel over his knee and off his calf. He placed these on his bedside table with care and reached for the prosthesis again, straightening out the suspension sleeve so that it hung loosely over the top of the socket. His leg was simply a limb missing its foot, as if it just had not grown the rest of the way. His movements were solemn, though, and she felt a twinge of resignation ripple through the air.

“What do _you_ think, Ian?” she asked.

He pushed himself back up onto the bed, resting with his back against the headboard, surveying her carefully. His left leg, the one that didn’t need a prosthetic, was pulled up at an angle. His face broke into a grin. “I call it my wee peg leg. Like a pirate, aye?”

Jenny rolled her eyes, feeling any tension left in the room disappear. “Christ, Ian.”

His brows snapped together. “Have ye heard that before?”

“Mm-hm. Jamie told me.”

“Tch. I should have guessed.” He looked at her, his dark eyes inquisitive in the lamplight. “Ye dinna regret coming to Paris, do ye?”

“Well, I’ve been here barely twenty-four hours,” she teased. “But no. No regrets.”

* * *

 

It was daylight when she woke again, and the room was dim with the curtains drawn but sunny with orange and pink light dappling the furniture. Jenny was cozy in a nest of fleece and down. She lay in the curve of Ian’s body, nestled in the heat of blankets, the softness of the mattress and the smoothness of his skin. She moved very slowly as she turned to face the sleeping man beside her, not wanting to disturb him.

He stirred, but only to squeeze her against him, as if checking she was still there before relaxing into the heaviness of sleep again.

The morning with him was - nice. New. But nice. And she felt rested, for once.

In college, Jenny had had boyfriends, had spent nights with them. But she had never been held or talked to through the night. In her experience, men might want to hold her as they drift to sleep, but often she would wriggle out of their arms or they would turn away from her in the night. Ian was different, and not what she’d come to expect; he was companionship before he was anything else. And she had slept soundly in his arms, his touch a soothing comfort, like chamomile tea.

He was warmth. There was no other way to describe him, she thought, recalling how her body thawed under him. It wasn’t that he was physically warm - although he was - it was how he connected with a deep part of her.

They had made love before falling asleep last night, their hands soft, their bodies hot, their feelings earnest under the blankets in the dark. He had rolled her onto her stomach, positioned himself between her legs, bit into her shoulder, and-- the entire network of her nerves whirred with electricity, remembering how she had melted like butter when he came inside her, how she was worked and kneaded until her entire body glowed like the afterburn of whisky.

It had only been a few hours, but her body hummed with want again.

Facing him, she ran her hands over his chest. As he stirred awake, her hands drifted lower and lower. He exhaled a low groan, though he didn’t open his eyes. She pressed a kiss against his jaw as she stroked him, his breath coming faster in her ear, rising to a distinct panting.

“Ye drive me mad,” he groaned, his voice heavy with sleep. She laughed and kissed him, thrilled by the deep timbre of his voice, how his body flushed and bloomed under her touch in the morning light. With a delighted, teasing sigh, she nestled into him, rubbing her nose into the fine hairs on his chest. She withdrew her hands and contentedly tucked both under her chin.

“Tch. Really?” he chided, his hand gripping a shoulder to gently push her back so he could look at her.

Jenny laughed again as he kneed her legs open, lifting one of her thighs over his hip. He closed his lips around her earlobe and murmured, “Are ye usually in this good of a mood in the mornings?”

Before she could answer, his hand drifted lower, lower - and lower. With a satisfied sigh, she let her head fall to the pillows, heat beginning to ripple through her.

“Well, Janet,” said Ian, looking at her with his head resting in his free hand. “What d’ye want to do today? The Louvre?”

“Hm?”

A press of fingers. “Did ye no’ hear me?”

“What did ye say?”

She could hear the smile in his voice. “Didn’t ye say ye got tickets to the Louvre?” Up, down, in.

“N-No.” God, it felt good.

“Didn’t ye?” His hand paused, and she cracked an eye open to study him, unable to tell if he was teasing her or not.

“I have _a_ ticket,” she said as her world slowed its spinning, returning to a normal pace.

“Mm.” He leaned towards her and pressed his mouth to her cheek. “Only _one_ ticket?”

She shivered, her insides melting like ice cream at the wisping of his breath against her ear. “Sorry.”

In one smooth motion, he lifted her leg higher over his hip, then his hand was back. It made a motion; once, twice; she groaned and he laughed, then said something she really didn’t hear.

“Janet? I said, did ye want to go? Ye can. I’ll make myself busy for the day.”

Suddenly her world bubbled over, and she bucked her hips as she began to ride his hand. “ _Fuck_. Ian!” she hissed, the suddenness of release surprising her. For a flash of a second, she was angry with him - she had wanted... - then he rolled on top of her, his body warm and heavy and lithe; he spread her legs wide under him and entered her before her nerves had been freed from their tingling knot.

“Mm.” She kissed his shoulder as he moved, feeling him stoke the fire again, and she relaxed against the sensation. She had her wits about her this time, however, and she smiled at him. “Did you want to go to the Louvre? I wouldna mind waiting in line for tickets. Then ye could come with me.”

His only reply was rapid breathing against her neck.

“Ian,” she laughed.

“Hm?”

“I asked ye, did _you_ want to go to the Louvre?”

“Oh, ah,” he paused, either to consider her question or gather his thoughts. “Mm-mm. No.”

“It’s settled then,” she said. She pulled a trapped lock of hair out from under her back. “We’ll skip it this time.”

Jenny chuckled at him, then threw her weight over and rolled on top of him.

Sometime later, they lay together, Ian on his back, Jenny with her head in the hollow of his shoulder. She patted his ribs and sat up, ready to start the day.

 


	19. Harvest

The bookstore was cramped and crowded with boutique furniture, but empty of people except for the elderly proprietor at the register. The place was a nook, a hole in the wall, and so old that dust perpetually settled in corners and the wood floors creaked under faded rugs.

Bookshelves were packed to the brim, and there was hardly any room to move around the tables holding more books. There was no official organization beyond ‘fiction’ and ‘non-fiction,’ leaving a customer to their own devices while sorting through stock. The books that did make it onto shelves displayed their lively and brightly colored spines, a stark contrast to the otherwise dim interior. It was not unlike a dragon’s hoard, if dragons hoarded books instead of treasure.

“Christ, Jenny, I know ye’re short,” Ian stated at one point, watching as she maneuvered around stacked piles of books, “but I hadna realized you were _that_ short.” He placed one hand on her head, the other stretched towards the top of the stack she was beside. Even he couldn’t reach the top.

“Hardy har har,” she replied, glib. She adjusted the pile of books in her arms, books he had picked out over their time here, seeing as she’d already purchased several on her solo venture into the city yesterday.  “Are ye almost done? These are getting heavy.”

He looked her over long enough to make her grow warm, then he smiled. “Almost done. One more thing. Not sure how anyone can find anything in here.”

She followed Ian deeper into the narrow building. “Well, what are ye looking for?”

He came to a stop at a table and began searching, carefully removing a few books from the top of a pile to gain easier access to the ones below. “Something on apples.”

“Looking in the fiction section won’t help.” She jerked her chin in the direction of the old brass sign on the wall.

“I dinna think it matters,” he said, and held up a copy of Stephen Hawking’s _A Brief History of Time._

Jenny laughed at the look on his face. “Alright, well, I’ll remind ye it was yer idea to come here, not mine. What time is it, by the way? Have we been here all day?” They had both forgotten to plug in their phones overnight and had left them back in their room to charge. An adventure, they had decided. A day in the city, spent together, without the distractions of social media or text messages.

He picked up a different book to take a closer look and opened it. “Check the sun?”

“Ye’re in a mood,” she teased. Next to him, she leaned her hip against the table, tempted to drop the books she held onto the pile.

He chuckled softly, not looking up. “Ye could say that if ye wanted.”

She smiled as she watched him turn a page. Like his face, his hands and forearms were sunkissed from summer work in the orchard. Even though he rolled the sleeves of his plaid button-down up at the elbows, she knew his tan continued onto his bicep only to stop just before reaching the shoulder. Then his skin was pale.

His tan-lines were soft, and she found it attractive. In fact, she found she adored it: the stamp of hard work, all for Lallybroch.

“Nice farmer’s tan, Ian,” she’d said earlier this morning, watching him as he went to throw a shirt over his head.

He had paused to look down at his shoulders, his shirt caught on his arms, and shrugged. “Might change, now that I’m sleeping with the boss. She’ll want to protect my lily-white skin,” he said, making her laugh.

“Ye know,” he said, calling her attention back to him, “I’m curious why ye’re looking at me like that.”

She gave a small shrug. “I was just thinking about how good looking ye are.”

“Ye think so?” He set down his book and came close to her.

She chuckled, trying to keep her voice down, suddenly aware of how quiet the bookstore was. “Aye, ye fool.”

With a playful click of his tongue, he reached for her face and tilted it towards him. He gazed down at her for a moment before he bent to give her a featherlight kiss. She came up on her tiptoes to meet him, and for a millisecond their lips broke apart. In that millisecond, Jenny felt the bookstore fade away, felt her heart flutter and jump - then he kissed her again, this time with deliberate intention. Vivid memories of last night - and this morning - flooded her, even with the stack of books she held between their bodies.

At the sound of books thudding heavily to the ground, they jumped apart, and Ian gave her a bashful look. “Whoops.”

Jenny set the books she was carrying on the table and knelt to help Ian straighten the stack they had bumped. They both shook with the laughter they tried to hold in.

“We should probably leave,” Jenny whispered as she reached under a table for a stray book, avoiding other stacks so as not to make the mess worse.

“Aye. Hungry?”

“Starving.”

 

* * *

**  
**

Books purchased, they emerged onto the street, sunny and bright in comparison to the dim bookstore, both still feeling light-hearted from the spilled-book-kiss. Hand in hand, they wandered in search of lunch.

They came into a street-market area, lively with vendors selling crafts and artwork. Food carts and stalls lined up at the curb, and a band played against the yellow wall of a restaurant. The space was rather crowded, Jenny noted, for a Tuesday afternoon.

Sunlight glinted off the cobblestones and the river’s waters at the end of the street. The atmosphere was utterly carefree and children ran cheerfully about.

“Did ye see the look he gave us, Jenny? He must have some innate sense to know when his dear books have been harmed,” said Ian, returning to Jenny with burgers in hand, purchased from a sky-blue-painted food truck.

“That, or he heard us.” She took the paper basket from him and he settled on the bench next to her, placing a third basket of chips between them.

“Ye think that old man could hear anything? He had large ears, but he must have been as deaf as a bat. Was definitely more of a sixth sense, ye saw the place.”

Jenny snorted with laughter and held her burger up for a bite. “Bats are _blind,_ not deaf.”

“No one likes a know-it-all.”

She rolled her eyes at him and dug into her food. She was famished, and the burger was surprisingly delicious and cooked just right. She grinned over at Ian, who was eating with the same enthusiasm. They ate in companionable silence, listening to the musicians play near them, soaking in the bohemian atmosphere.

“Does yer leg bother you?” she asked, tilting her head to the side as she bit into a chip.

He grabbed a chip and bit it, looking away from her towards the musician playing. “My leg is fine, dinna worry about it.”

“No, not now. Ye seem fine. I’m only wondering - are there any moments where it pains you?”

He gave her a sidelong look, surprise evident on his face. “Aye. There are times when I can feel my foot even if it isna there. Why?”

She gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I’m only trying to learn, is all. Will ye tell me about it?”

He leaned back against the bench and took a sip of his drink. He chewed on the straw a moment, his right leg stretching out before him.

“It’s only,” she pressed, “that ye’ve mentioned it bothering you before.”

He nodded. “It’s not much to worry about, Janet.”

“No? What about this morning?”

Earlier that day, Jenny had invited him to shower with her after she’d hopped out of bed, but Ian had declined on account of his leg. What had followed was an embarrassed apology from Jenny - she hadn’t realized his prosthetic couldn’t get wet, nor had she realized that he might have needed an accessible shower with rails to keep his balance when he was without the support of his prosthetic under the water. He had insisted he was fine and refused her help with a dismissive shrug. He had put his prosthetic on to cross the room, something Jenny insisted was ridiculous - he could balance fine on his own, she was certain, or if he needed it, she was happy to have him lean on her shoulder. The bed must have felt different than the rest of the room; he refused to leave it without his prosthetic attached.

Recognizing a boundary when she saw it, Jenny let it go, but not without noting she needed to talk to him later. She realized she hadn’t considered so many things about traveling with Ian.

“Tch. Dinna worry about that. Everything’s fine.” He avoided her eye, though, and bit into another chip after swiping it through ketchup.

“I will worry about it, though.” Mostly finished with her lunch, she absently plaited a lock of her hair. “Should I have thought ahead to get an accessible room?”

He scoffed and waved a dismissive hand. “No, I dinna need that.”

“Well, I don’t know what ye need. That’s why you have to tell me.”

“I will tell ye, Janet.”

She crossed her arms. “Oh, will you? Ye kept the accident a secret from me, for weeks.”

Offense flickered across his face for a moment before cooling. “I wouldna say it was a secret, but ye’re right; I didna tell ye.” He stretched both legs out before him, crossing them at the ankles. Left over the right.

Jenny felt a flash of offense, too, but it wasn’t at Ian. It was at Dougal, for taking that chance from Ian, when he’d cornered Jenny in the orchard after their meeting about Lallybroch cider. She pursed her lips and decided to steer towards more neutral waters. “Were ye joking when ye said Paris would be a problem? Does it pain ye to walk distances?” They had been on their feet a fair while, and on uneven ground.

He gave her a disbelieving look. “I can walk as far and as long as you can,” he said. “It’s different, but it’s the same, too.”

Her hand rested near the chip basket, inching towards, but not grabbing one. She thought about his long days in the orchard at the beginning of the summer, how often he left before her day had even begun and wouldn’t return until well after supper. And then - after they’d adjusted to working together, inhabiting the same home and same workspaces - she’d seen how hard he worked, how he tended her trees and managed Lallybroch from top to toe. “I ken that, Ian,” she said, meeting his gaze.

Having finished his burger, he crumpled the wrapping into a ball and placed it in the paper basket at his side. “I’m used to it. Paris is nae problem. Besides, don’t your feet get sore in those shoes?” He nodded towards her feet, indicating the plain black flats she wore.

She quickly crossed her ankles and tucked them under her seat on the bench, out of sight. “Sometimes.”

He chuckled. “Thought so. It’s like that - if ye’re on yer feet too long, they get sore. Same with my leg. And my foot,” he added, an afterthought. “Though my boots are pretty comfortable.”

She leaned over and placed a kiss on his ear, cool against the warmth of her mouth.

They deposited their garbage in the waste bin, moving further into the market. They hadn’t planned anything for the rest of the day, instead deciding to wander about and play it by ear. The air smelled more like the Seine as they strolled away from the food area. The live music faded into the distance, but not for long; there seemed to be another musician every few hundred feet. It was busy, but not crowded; they walked comfortably side by side, pausing here and there to admire the artwork or talk to artists, tucked into their white canopied booths.

“Look at this one, Jen,” said Ian, picking a small painting out of a bin. “Looks a bit like you.”

“Me?” She leaned away from the landscape she had been appreciating to see what Ian held. A painting of a black-haired little girl with a ribbon in her hair, sitting on a garden wall, surrounded by larks and sparrows. Painted with a soft brush, a light touch, and vivid colors, the piece reminded her not only of herself, but of her mother’s artistic style. She touched it gently at the corner.

“Yes.” He grinned at her. “Remember when ye took in that hurt bird?”

“I’d forgotten! The one with the broken wing?” She’d found the injured sparrow in the clearing while playing with Ian and Jamie when she was about eight years old. It was small, delicate, and helpless. She felt an echo of the compassion she’d felt to help it heal and could vividly remember the feathery softness of its body in her hands. She’d brought it to her parents and carefully nursed the animal until they’d given it to the care of a wildlife veterinarian. “I can’t believe you remember.”

“Of course I remember,” he replied. “Looks like what your mam used to paint in her free time, too, no?”

She slowly nodded, her lips coming into a small smile. Reliable Ian. “Yes, it does. Shall we buy it?”

Painting purchased, wrapped, and bagged, they decided to walk the long way back to drop it and the books off at the hotel before they would venture off again for an evening out. They didn’t interact much beyond a word here and there, or maybe the gentle touch of fingers to the hand or the back; they were enjoying each other’s uncomplicated company. This was surprisingly easy, Jenny told herself, and wrapped her hand around his arm, pulling close against him as they walked. She had never been shy about a fondness for Ian, only uncertain about what it might mean.

She pressed her face against him, turning in from a cool breeze. He smelled like the orchard, even now that they were away.

“Ian,” she began, unsure how to continue. “Ye know how I said I wanted to move here? That I was frustrated with Lallybroch?”

He touched her hand and waited, indicating that he remembered.

“Well, being here, it - it only made me realize... Lallybroch is home. Not Paris.”

“Ye’re thinking of staying on with the orchard?”

“I am. Everything here, it just reinforces for me that I am part of Lallybroch. And that Lallybroch is a part of me.”

“Why do ye say that?”

“I love being here...I love Paris more than anything else in the world. That hasna changed. But -” she gripped his arm tight “I’m only a visitor here. At home - my parents - they’re at Lallybroch. Were - _are._ They entrusted the orchard to me. They risked everything to be together, to cultivate the land into what it is. Paris is… a vacation, a getaway. I miss my land, and the trees - the trees are alive in a way I canna describe.” She smiled broadly. “The trees are mine. I could never think to give that up.”

He nodded. “And what about writing?”

“I can write at the orchard. It was foolish of me to think I couldn’t,” she replied with certainty. Words itched just beneath her fingertips, and she ran her free hand down the strap of her purse, thinking of the notebook and pen inside. This was Paris, but she’d hardly written anything here. Over the past few months, much more had been accomplished at home.

“Lallybroch doesna feel too small for ye?” Ian asked.

“No. Lallybroch is small. But none too small. I think a magazine would call it charming.”

Ian snorted. “It would, at that.”

Jenny exhaled with relief, feeling more settled into herself than she ever had, as if her body was finally catching up with who she was as a person. She leaned into Ian’s arm once more, longing for the sight of her trees, the smell of the dirt and the apples in the branches, on the ground. For how the sunlight cascaded over the leaves as she gazed at them through her office window, how she’d felt working the orchard with guests, baking apple treats and checking on the cider. Her land - green, and fruitful, and beautiful.

“And Paris will be available for visits,” she stated, as if continuing a left off conversation.

“It will.”

“And there are other places to visit, too. Places we havena been before.” She beamed up at him as he grinned and kissed her forehead. Could she have reached this conclusion if she’d come to France alone? she wondered. She stopped Ian with a tug of her arm and pulled him into a tight hug, the paper bags with his books and her painting in her hand.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, and not quite loud enough for him to hear. But she knew he had heard it, because he squeezed her tight.

Paris was no longer a chore, or an escape, or about mourning. It was her city, but now it was Ian’s, too. It belonged to both of them in a way Paris hadn’t belonged to her alone before.

They breezed into the hotel, both looking forward to resting their feet for a bit before heading out again. The elevator ride up to their floor was peaceful, the golden walls and mirror offering familiar comfort as they remained connected with loosely interlocked fingers.

In the room, Ian settled in to remove his boots while Jenny carefully set their purchases on the dresser. She gave Ian a relaxed kiss as she went around him to her end table, where her phone lay charging.

Upon the press of the home button, she scrolled through an alarming amount of notifications. Emails; texts; social media messages; phone calls and voicemails. A few dozen or so. Too many.

“What - ?” she stammered.

The intensity of the notifications increased with each message, causing her heart to pound and her hands to shake. She felt frozen.

“Jenny,” Ian snapped, alarmed. “What’s wrong?” He rushed towards her as if to help, and she stepped away, the back of her legs bumping into the bed.

She tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry; when she spoke, her voice cracked. “Lallybroch - There was a big fire. Last night.”

Ian’s eyes went wide. “Oh, god. Is everyone okay? What happened?”

“I don’t know yet,” she snapped, her body numb with shock. Using clumsy fingers, she began searching for available flights. “We have to get home. Now.”

 


	20. Smoke

The air smelled of ash as Jenny walked through the orchard. The toes of her boots were marked with soot from turning over logs and stepping over broken branches in the most damaged places.

 

She would never forget the sight, walking through her land and seeing it destroyed by the flames. The weather was demure, the sky was a crisp blue, the temperature chilly; it was a cruel contrast to the devastation of her trees. Jenny felt it mocking her as her gaze traced the black and bald twist of the branches that remained standing.

 

Her beloved trees were missing their leaves and apples, their trunks marked by the bone-white trails of ash and death. Where the trees sometimes spoke to her, murmuring their assurances or surrounding her in their magic, these ones were silent. They were gone.

 

From her estimation, more than half of her trees had gone up in smoke. The farmhouse, the Fraser family tree - these were safe. The old orchard, safe. Adso, safe. For these things, she was thankful.

 

The fire must have begun on the far side of the orchard, the farthest from the farmhouse. Damage was the worst there.

 

Upon arriving, Jenny needed to see the trees for herself, to survey her land. To feel it. She couldn’t face Joseph or Mrs. Crook, or any of the other employees that had arrived at work today, awaiting direction. She had let them all down.

 

And Ian. She had frozen him out on the way home. He’d wanted to talk it through, offering support to her, wanting to map out a plan. But she didn’t want that. It was his idea to send her to Paris that risked this in the first place. Well, Jenny thought. He was just as much, if not more, to blame for this as she was, she tried to convince herself. But the fact of the matter was-- she had let him down, too.

 

The orchard had been open, but now it likely needed to close. For how long? Could the business weather this catastrophe? Creditors her father had dealt with already called regularly, and now she’d need more loans - not to mention time she didn’t have - to get the orchard up and running again. And Dougal. He would eventually come, sniffing around to find her faults and her failures. It was only a matter of time, if he wasn’t here already.

 

The fire marshal had been by already, to collect evidence once the fire was put out, but that was, _of course_ , before Jenny arrived. She’d have to wait until he came by again before getting the official story. Joseph and Mrs. Crook proved rather useless, neither of them knowing how the fire started, or even when - only that it had started sometime in the night and burned through the morning before the firefighters arrived to stop it. Her heel caught on an upturned stone as she walked, and Jenny nearly tripped, coming face to face with the jagged edge of the fire’s trail through her land. She felt empty, shrouded in misery and guilt as she stared at her feet, crossing the line of charred ground and green grass.

 

She couldn’t help but think that if she had been there, this might never have happened. Maybe she couldn’t have prevented the fire outright, but she was the only one who lived on the land. She, and Ian. And she was often up at night. She might have noticed that something was amiss and contacted the authorities faster. Maybe there would have been less damage. Maybe she could have prevented it all.

 

Feeling her chest tightening, Jenny looked towards the small barn at the edge, where she kept her cider fermentation vats. The door and walls were blackened, the roof partially collapsed. Attached to a corner of the barn was - of course - a power line. She made her way to the barn as quickly as she could, determined to find out if that was the fire’s origin.

 

Soot stained her hands as she creaked the barn door open, but she paid no heed to it. She hardly noticed how the whole wall shook with the release of the door. Her footsteps scuffed against the concrete floor of the barn as she squeezed around antique farm tools. The place smelled of fire extinguishing chemicals, and she coughed.

 

And yes, there it was, as she’d expected: a small fuse box, obliterated, its colorful cords and wires hanging out of it like the intestines out of a gruesome gut wound.

 

She felt sick; an electrical fire. She’d known things at the orchard were run down and needed to be replaced, but the fire proved that she had misjudged the significance of these changes. Her throat constricted, and she felt that the atmosphere of the scorched barn would choke her.

 

The door was still slightly open, and Jenny shoved through the small space as fast as she could, needing the escape of fresh air. But even outside everything was foul and black. With quick steps, Jenny made way for the farmhouse.

 

She stumbled onto one of the main dirt paths between the rows of trees, taking a moment to collect herself. The array of green relaxed her, and she went to a live tree, reaching out with a gentle hand to touch a leaf. It felt fragile and papery as she ran a fingertip along the ridges of the membranes on the underside.

 

She ducked between a few low hanging branches, heading in to find the trunk of the tree. She grasped the branch above her head, braced one foot against the trunk, and launched herself upwards.

 

This apple tree was not very tall, but she found a sturdy branch she could sit on high off the ground. Here, she was protected by the tree itself, shrouded in its branches and bathed in the green light of sun through the leaves. Here, she had full view of her orchard.

 

Before she knew it, tears fell hot and fast down her face. The orchard was green, black, white, brown; the trees that had survived held tight to their apples, not letting them drop to the ground, fearful mothers clutching their children. She could see some green trees in the distance through the outstretched branches of burned trees, their reach frozen and corpse-like as if caught in the gaze of Medusa.

 

“Jenny?” cut a voice, unnervingly nearby. She held very still, not even daring to breathe. It was Ian. She heard him drop something to the ground and then a few branches shifted as he came into the tree. She stared down at him from her branch. He was tall; if he reached up he could easily grab ahold of her foot. He was wearing his baseball cap again and his clothes had a thin layer of the familiar orchard dust, but this time it was marred with the grotesque blackness of soot and ash. “What are ye doing up there?”

 

She rubbed at her cheeks, hoping to wipe away evidence of her tears. “Nothing.”

 

“Want me to come up?” he asked, his brow creased with worry.

 

“No! No. I’ll come down.”

 

With more energy than she felt, she climbed her way down, realizing belatedly that Ian had held out his arms to help her balance. She clutched at him just as her feet hit the ground with a soft thud.

 

He stared closely at her even though she tried to avoid his scrutiny, his brown eyes wide with concern. “I’ve not seen ye since we arrived.”

 

“I know; I’m sorry.” She was. She’d been mostly ignoring him since Paris. The exhaustion and grime of travel still clung to her clothes.

 

He reached out and wiped at her cheeks. “Ye’ve got soot all over your face. And no wonder— look at yer hands.” He didn’t need to ask why she’d been in the tree or what she’d been doing since they got here. He understood her like no one had ever understood her before, and Jenny took reluctant comfort in that fact.

 

She looked at her hands. They were black with soot; she’d forgotten. “Oh god,” she said, stepping away from him and blotting at her wet face with the backs of hands, as if that would help. “What have you been up to? I thought ye were in the house.” She’d left him there after some terse words, and she flushed a bit as she remembered them. He’d tried to press her to talk, but the shock of the fire had rendered her speechless with fury and humiliation. She’d been angry with him for not being as upset as she was when they’d heard the news of the orchard; she’d been even more upset watching him attempt to fix everything upon arriving at the orchard.

 

Now, though, she did feel relief at his touch, at the sound of his voice. But she had created some distance between them by not understanding he wanted to support her and help, and she made sure she was out of arm’s reach, feeling awkward.

 

“I was,” he ventured carefully, and she felt his gaze on her. “But I wanted to stabilize the wall of the barn before it collapsed. I’ve sent Joseph out to get some lumber so I can build something to brace it. I was coming out here with my toolbox to take a look when I heard ye.”

 

“I’m sorry I yelled at ye,” she said suddenly. “I hope ye know I didna mean it.”

 

He nodded slowly. “I know.”

 

Her shoulders slumped. “It hurts me to look at it. My land. It feels…dead. And it feels like my fault.”

 

His voice was quiet. “How is this your fault?”

 

“I left.” The words hung in the air between them, resonating hollowly. The green trees were silent, not even the wind picked up for a rustle of leaves.

 

“If ye blame yerself, d’ye also blame me?” he asked, softly. “I was the one who told ye to leave.”

 

Surprised, she glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “No, I don’t blame you.”

 

“Well then,” he said, “It was just an accident.”

 

Accident. Jenny let out a breath at the sound of the word. An accidental fire. “But what if we had been here, could we have stopped it?”

 

Ian shook his head. “Likely not. There’s a million little things that could have gone differently. There’s no use in dwelling on what if’s or what could have been. We’re here now, and we can fix it now. Can’t we?”

 

“I think so.” She crossed her arms over her chest and stared hard at a knot of roots at the base of the tree. She had so many worries — with so much of the property destroyed, how would they pay their employees? The creditors? How would she keep Dougal at bay now that the orchard had been severely damaged? Could they even stay open this season? Would Lallybroch have to close again? How would she tell Jamie? The questions seemed to have no end.

 

He lightly touched her shoulder, stepping towards her. “No matter what, ye’ll not deal with this alone,” he said, as if he could hear her thoughts.

 

Filled with tenderness, Jenny went to him and wrapped her arms around his middle, hugging him to her with a tight squeeze, which he returned. She rubbed her cheek against his chest, taking solace in the solid warmth of him.

 

“Let’s get ye cleaned up, aye? Have ye showered since ye’ve been home?”

 

“Don’t ye want to look at the barn?”

 

“Yes, but it can wait a few hours while I get ye settled. I think it would be good to go inside, scrub off the dirt, get some clean clothes, some food, maybe a glass of water—things will feel better.”

 

She nodded, releasing him, and they made their way to the house. Ian left his toolbox behind.

 

The inside of the farmhouse was deeply relieving. Everything was as  they left it a couple days ago; everything was as it was expected to be. The kitchen was still bright and cheery, the floral couch in the sitting room still plush and faded, the sunlight still filtered through the windows on the second floor and spilled onto the blue rug in the hallway. The wood floors still creaked, the walls still white. It was home.

 

Adso had greeted Jenny when she entered, the wooden screen door banging shut behind her. She scooped the happy cat into her arms and gave her a hug, feeling the softness of her grey fur against her cheek. Adso purred happily against Jenny’s chest as Ian reached out to scratch under her chin.

 

With Adso in her arms, Jenny made her way upstairs, Ian following.

 

“I put yer suitcase on the bed,” he said as they stepped into her room. The purple carry-on bag sat heavy on her quilt. “I wasna sure what to do with it.”

 

“Oh, that’s fine, thank you.” She turned to him as he hovered in the doorway. It seemed like a line they had yet to cross. Having him in the same room was one thing on holiday, a different thing entirely at home.

 

“I’ll make ye some food,” Ian said. “Take a break.”

 

She moved uncertainly towards the door, drawn to him, but unsure how to act at this moment. She placed a hand on his arm, looking up at him. “Ian,” she began, but then he bent and kissed her gently, and all the awkwardness and tension melted away.

 

They broke apart at the sound of a car door slamming shut from the driveway. “Who—?” Jenny pushed past Ian and went into her office, where she could see the front of the property.

 

“Jamie’s here,” she said.

 

His red hair glinted in the sun as he opened the trunk to remove his bags. She felt a pulse of astonishment pass through her at the sight of her brother. He didn’t need to come home, and she was insulted at his presence. But what surprised Jenny the most, was the curly brown-haired woman she’d never seen before climb out of Jamie’s car.

 

“Who the hell is that?” Jenny asked.

 

Ian, who had followed her, peered over her shoulder at the woman. “I have no idea.”

 

Jenny turned on her heel to greet him at the door, but Jamie was already inside, setting his bags against a wall in the entryway.

 

“Jamie!” Jenny called, her feet light on the stairs as she skipped down them. Ian followed close behind. “Ye picked a fine time to be home. And who’s yer guest?” Her voice was droll, one eyebrow raised as she scanned the other woman. The woman was taller than herself but still rather short compared to Jamie, with a slender figure and eyes so light brown they were nearly golden. She was standing somewhat behind Jamie, but at the sight of Jenny and Ian she came forward, extending a hand.

 

“I’m Claire. You have a lovely home. Although the circumstances are quite unfortunate…”

 

Jamie immediately cut her off. “What the fuck did ye do to the orchard, Jenny?”

 

Jenny brushed by Claire’s outstretched hand and charged towards her brother. So _this_ was how it was going to be.

 

“What did _I_ do to the orchard?” Jenny repeated. “Ye think I did this?”

 

He narrowed his eyes at her and stepped forward, closing some of the space between them. “Who else? Ye had one job.”

 

“My job,” she emphasized, “is to run the orchard.”

 

“And look what happens when we leave ye in charge.”

 

“‘Leave me’? Ye ‘left me’ in charge? The godforsaken business came to _me_ in Da’s will, not you. Ye didna have anything to do with it.”

 

“I offered to stay here and run it with ye. Ye’re tellin’ me that if I had stayed, this would have happened anyway?”

 

“Yes,” hissed Jenny, exasperated. “It was an accident.”

 

“An accident?” Jamie repeated. “Why, then, did Joseph tell me ye werena here, and that he couldna get ahold of ye? I rushed home quick as I could to clean up yer mess.”

 

“Joseph couldna reach me because I wasn’t here,” Jenny said baldly. “I was away on holiday.”

 

“On holiday? Ye were on holiday and ye didna pay mind to yer phone when ye ken ye’re in charge of a business?”

 

“And how exactly would ye know how to run a business? I was only away from my phone for a few hours; ye’re telling me I have to be on my phone constantly?”

 

“What kind of person isn’t in this day and age? Yer phone is a lifeline, especially when yer life’s blood is in this orchard! It needed ye, Jenny, and ye failed. I kent Joseph called me last, once he couldna reach ye—he said he’d been trying for an entire day! That the trees went up in flames durin’ the night and he didna hear from ye til the next evening!”

 

“Don’t tell me what the orchard is to me, brother. Ye havena been here to know the work we’ve done wi’ it!”

 

“Where were you, Jenny? What could have been so important that ye werena thinkin’ straight?”

 

“I don’t know what business it is of yours where I’ve been,” she said, pausing, edging closer to Ian, “but if ye must know, I was in Paris.”

 

Jamie’s eyebrows shot up. “Why the hell would ye go to Paris?”

 

“I don’t have to explain myself to you!” she shouted furiously, “Ye should damn well know why, anyway!”

 

“Oh, aye?” Jamie took it as a challenge. “That’s right! Ye do love Paris. Love it more than Lallybroch, it seems. Ye let it be destroyed while ye were off galavantin’ with the French, pretending to be someone you’re not!”

 

“Jamie, maybe we should talk about this later—” came Claire’s voice.

 

Jenny pointed a finger in Claire’s direction, but didn’t look at her. “You attack me about being in Paris and away from the orchard, when ye bring a stranger home for a close look at our worst nightmare?” she accused.

 

“Claire’s no’ a stranger!”

 

“I’m sorry, brother, she is to me; you’re no’ welcome here. I have business to take care of.”

 

“Ye’ll not speak to Claire that way,” Jamie said, his voice low and dangerous. “She’s to be my wife.”

 

“Oh!” exclaimed Jenny. “Yer ‘wife-to-be.’ Is she the reason I havena heard from ye? Why ye barely call or text? You, who are always on yer phone?”

 

“Ye sent me away!” Jamie shouted. “How was I to know that when I’d leave everything would go to hell?”

 

“The fire was an accident!” she shouted back.

 

“Have ye any idea what we’ve lost? What we’ll continue to lose? What if we canna afford to replace the trees? To make the repairs? We’ll have to close for the season again and we don’t have a back up plan to pay our bills.”

 

Jenny and Jamie were nose to nose, and even though he towered over her, Jenny didn’t cower. Instead her back was ramrod straight and her hands were on her hips, making her feel as large as he was. She wasn’t intimidated by his size, even as he tried to use it to intimidate her.  “Ye think I’m no’ concerned about that? That I havena thought of that?”

 

“Ye are so blinded by Paris, blinded by your desire to be anywhere but here; ye had ‘dreams’ bigger than this place, ye used to tell me. How dare ye let that keep ye from caring for the business, for the land! Tell me, Janet, what on Earth could be so important that ye would take off and leave yer phone behind?”

 

“I had my phone with me!”

 

“Oh, so when Joseph called me and said, ‘I canna get ahold of Jenny,’ he was lyin’?”

 

“No—”

 

“How could ye be so stupid!”

 

Jenny was finally too overwhelmed to speak. She touched her fingers to her forehead, sucking in a breath. As if by reflex, she glanced behind her at Ian, who was leaning against the stair railing, still one or two steps off the main floor. Ian shot her a sympathetic glance but made no move to intervene.

 

Jamie caught the look. “Ah!” he exclaimed, moving past Jenny and narrowing his eyes at his friend. “ _I see_.” Jenny followed her brother to stand between the two men. Claire, having taken her cue from Ian, backed away from the three of them.

 

“Ye see _what_?” Jenny challenged, but Jamie didn’t even spare a glance down at her.

 

“I hired ye to help my sister, not to distract her.”

 

“ _Excuse me_ —” Jenny tried to cut in, furious, but Ian spoke next.

 

“Jenny hired me, ye’ll remember that, Jamie. Not you.”

 

Jamie nodded, though his jaw was clenched. “But ye came here because of me.”

 

“Aye, I did. It was yer suggestion.”

 

“Oh, my suggestion, was it? Aye, I said something to ye about it first, but ye didna take much convincing. Ye looked rather eager to see my sister.”

 

“Jamie!” Jenny snapped. “This isn’t anyone’s fault! Ian wasna anything near a distraction. I couldn’t have done any of this without him. He has been a huge help. The orchard is in the best shape it’s been in years, because of him. Leave off of him!”

 

“The best shape, is it?” Jamie snarled. “I never should have brought ye here, Ian.”

 

“This isn’t any of yer business!” Jenny snapped.

 

“Ye’ll not listen to a word I say, Jamie,” came Ian’s reply as he hopped down the last stair to meet them on the main floor. He wasn’t as tall as Jamie but he was close in height. His face was steely and cold as he looked his friend over, though Jenny knew he was trying to seem unaffected. “But I’ll try. Ye dinna ken what it’s like to have been here, day in and day out, watching Jenny work. She needed a break. Dinna blame her for her holiday. The fire was an accident. Nothing could have been done to prevent it.”

 

Jamie’s face scrunched up with a look of disgust, and he scoffed. “Was the reason ye took this job so you could fuck my sister?”

 

Jenny felt the wind knock out of her at the insult, and she looked to Ian, who glared furiously at Jamie. She’d never seen such a look on him.

 

She rounded on her brother. “How dare ye say such a thing!”

 

“Were ye no’ in Paris with her, then?” Jamie continued. “Because from what I recall, Joseph said he couldna get ahold of either of ye.” It was true. Jenny’s phone had blown up with the news, and so did Ian’s. Jenny had seen the number of missed calls and missed messages from the employees herself.

 

“Did ye enjoy yer romantic getaway?” Jamie growled maliciously, “Was it worth it? Fucking in a French city while Lallybroch burns to the ground?”

 

She yanked violently on his arm, and his body jerked down towards her. “That’s enough! Knock it off, you obstinate bastard, before I throw you out,” she snarled at him, giving him a strong shove backward, away from her. She was satisfied with the distance he’d stumbled back. “This is my home and ye’ll not speak to me-- or Ian-- that way.” Her toe nudged one of Jamie’s bags on the ground.

 

Shaken, Jamie rubbed his arm where she’d pushed him. He glared at her, but said nothing.

 

“Now,” Jenny continued. “I’m exhausted. I need a shower. I will talk to you later.” With a final scowl at Jamie, Jenny turned on her heel and went back up the stairs.

  
  



	21. Forget-Me-Not

There was a light knock on her door.

 

She clenched her jaw, considered ignoring it. But the knock came again, this time accompanied by a soft “Jen?” It was Ian, come to check on her.

 

Jenny had left Ian, Claire, and Jamie to their own devices downstairs, needing some time alone. In the shower of her bathroom, she’d scrubbed what seemed like endless ash from the creases of her knuckles, scraped it out from under her fingernails, washed it from her face. The fire touched everything; even as she washed the soot away, it left tendrils of black running down the drain. She’d taken extra care to rinse it away, to leave no trace of the fire behind.

 

Now she was sitting on her bed in clean, comfortable clothes, a book in her lap, smelling of bar soap and shampoo. She was trying to lose herself in the story, to become invested in romance and adventure, but her eyes kept drifting to the window. She could see the Fraser family tree, the stark contrast between trees that were green and trees that were black. Dead.

 

“Jenny.” The voice came through the door again, and she folded her book away. If she was being honest with herself, Ian’s calming, steadying, unassuming presence might be nice after such a miserable day.

 

Opening the door, she saw he’d brought her a plate of meat and cheese.

 

“It’s simple, but I thought ye’d be hungry. You haven’t eaten.”

 

“I haven’t,” she replied, her stomach suddenly starting to rumble. “Thank you.” She accepted the food and turned into the room. She glanced back at him. “Aren’t ye going to come in?”

 

He hesitated, but then he gave a small smile, closing the door behind him.

 

She sat on her bed and fell back against her pillows, giving a dramatic sigh, the food plate left on her end table. He sat upon the edge of her bed on the other side, as if not sure where to be or what to do.

 

Jenny’s room was a sanctuary-- it always had been, even when she was little. A place where she could be herself, unburdened by the pressures of others, shrouded from the outside by her walls, her blankets, her belongings, her stories. Inviting Ian into this space tethered her room strongly to the feeling of sanctuary and home, and a cozy, golden light flooded her chest with the thought.

 

He seemed tense, though; stressed. She laughed. “Ye can relax.”

He threw an apologetic smile her way, bending to remove his boots. She noticed then that he hadn’t changed since arriving, that his clothes were still dirty. His hands were clean -- he must have scrubbed them before gathering a snack for her. She reached out to touch his back. The cloth of his shirt was soft and well-worn, still carrying the scent of outside air in the fabric.

 

“What did ye get up to?” she asked.

 

“Well, I helped stabilize the wall of the barn,” he said as he dropped his untied boots. She heard them land on the floor with a soft thud.

 

“Oh, right. Ye’d come outside to do that before I’d interrupted ye.”

 

“Hmph. Ye didna interrupt me.” He removed his baseball cap and rested it on the end table. Some of his hair was slicked against his scalp from sweat; the smell of it faintly lingered in the air, but it wasn’t unpleasant.

 

“Seems like hard work,” she remarked. “Ask me for help next time.”

 

“I don’t mind it. Makes me feel useful. Jamie helped.”

 

She snorted. “Did he now.” Jenny brought her knees up to her chin and fiddled with a loose thread on the quilted blanket.

 

“He was being an ass, Jenny.”

 

“Bah,” she snarked, “That’s putting it mildly.”

 

“I want ye to know …” He paused as if searching for what he wanted to say. “The awful things Jame said. I didn’t want ye to think that I only wanted, well...” With a small gesture, he indicated the purple carry on bag peeping out from her closet; she’d unpacked and tucked it neatly away. There was no time for clutter or for reminders that she’d been gone; she’d wanted all reminders of Paris gone. But not Ian.

 

“I care about Lallybroch. I’m dedicated to seeing the orchard thrive. You--” His voice grew hoarse and he tried again. “I’ve thought about it. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t care about the orchard.” She opened her mouth to interrupt, and seeing it, he pressed on. “No matter what could’ve -- did,  _is--_  happening between you and me, I’d be here to help you and Jamie. Jenny, I love -- the orchard, and ye needna think ye’d have to, or that I’d only help if--”

 

“For Christ's sake, Ian,” she interrupted with a grimace, exasperated. “Ye dinna think I believe the nonsense my dimwit of a brother said? He’ll say anything to get his way when he’s in a temper.” The hand she’d laid on his back was pressing deep, soothing circles into his shoulder blades. She scooted closer to him on the bed and rested her head on his shoulder.

 

“Ye ken as well as I do that what happened in Paris would have happened were we there, or here.” Emboldened by the seclusion of her bedroom, the fall of night, the solidness of his body against her cheek, she pressed a kiss into his jaw. The stubble there was prickly and familiar.

 

Her bedside lamp cast the room in a cozy glow. She wanted to curl against him, have him hold her, to hold him back; she wanted to burrow into this temporary cocoon, protected by these walls. Here, she knew Lallybroch Orchards would be fine.

 

He sighed into her, and with it she felt him relax. He was delightfully warm; he smelled of sweat and soil. Familiar scents, ones of home.

 

“Stay tonight?”

 

“Of course.” He kissed her, his mouth inviting and pleasant.

 

“Mmmm. Ye taste like beer,” she remarked.

 

He grinned. “That’s because I was drinking beer. Ye taste like mint.”

 

“That’s because I brushed my teeth.” Her mouth sought his again and she moved into him, but he held her back.

 

“Let me shower,” he murmured.

 

“Need help?” she offered teasingly, still near enough that she felt his warm breath on her face as he laughed. She swept a line with her finger down his cheek.

 

He shrugged, noncommittal and teasing. “Eat your snack. I’ll be back.”

 

“Oh.”

 

It seemed silly, but she didn’t want him to leave. His absence would break the spell, erase the harmony of the moment. She didn’t want anything to change. “I’ve got a shower here, why don’t ye just use this one?”

 

His brow twitched with surprise.

 

“Well, I mean, ye don’t have to, I just thought since ye’re here--” She cut herself off. “It’s silly.”

 

Ian rolled his eyes at her and wandered into her bathroom. She followed him, her hands anxiously coming to rest on his hips. It occurred to her that he had paused as if to take in what he saw. Personal bathrooms were private; if they didn’t belong to you, entering one was layered with a sense of trespassing. But she had invited him.

 

“I’ll get ye a fresh bar of soap,” she said, brushing past him to the cupboard under the sink. “There are fresh towels in the linen closet, here.” She opened the small door. “And ye can use my shampoo if ye’d like.”

 

“A walk-in shower,” he remarked.

 

“Well, yeah,” she said, a bit nervous, though she didn’t know why. She drew back the curtain. “It’s no’ very big.” In fact, it was smaller than the coat closet downstairs, and while Jenny was small, she occasionally felt cramped inside it. He stared at it.

 

“What is it, Ian?”

 

“Nothing. I didna know ye had this in the house. All this time, and I’ve been struggling with my damn leg getting in and out of a bathtub.” He shook his prosthetic foot and laughed. “It’s hard to be on one foot in the first place without my peg leg; imagine being wet and trying to hop over a porcelain tub and nothing to grab onto. I look like an idiot, that’s for sure.”

 

Her heart sank as she looked at him. “Jesus, Ian, I’m so sorry… I suppose I didn’t even think.” She went to reach for him, but stopped. “Why didn’t ye say anything? You’re welcome to use my shower at any time. There’s a small step here, just a lip in the tile to keep the water from spilling over. Will this work?” She studied him, waiting.

 

“It’ll work fine.”

 

She was still cautious but stepped away. “Turn this way for hot, that way for cold. I’ll get you a fresh set of clothing?” she offered.

 

“I’d appreciate that,” he said, grasping her shoulders and pressing his thumbs into the skin. She sighed at the touch.

 

She left the bathroom just as the water turned on, gently shutting the door behind her and sneaking down the hall into Ian’s room. Not daring to turn the light on, she made her way to the dresser as quietly as she could. Ian’s drawers were mostly empty, but she managed to collect a tee, sweatpants, socks, underwear. On his dresser sat the toiletry bag from Paris. She knew by experience that it held his toothbrush, toothpaste, razor, and--.

 

“Jenny?”

 

She whipped around, startled. “Jamie!” she exclaimed, a bit breathless.

 

He was standing in Ian’s doorframe, dressed for bed. The light from the hallway behind him showed him as little more than a silhouette. “I thought I might have heard Ian out here, but…” He ran a hand through his hair. “Look, I want to apologize. For what I said.”

 

“Ye do?”

 

“Yeah. I can’t imagine it’s easy to be here when ye dinna want to be. I don’t blame ye for leavin’. Ian’s right -- I’m sure ye needed a break. You’ve been trapped here a while.”

 

She wanted to speak, but could clearly sense that he wanted to continue, so she waited. The sound of her shower had changed -- Ian was inside now. Jamie noticed too; he cleared his throat, his body going tense. But he said nothing, and Jenny couldn’t stand to wait.

 

“I’m sorry this happened, Jamie. This… sucks,” she finished, for lack of a better word. “If it makes ye feel any better, I am glad to have ye here. We’ll figure it out.”

 

He nodded, shifting slightly as she left Ian’s room and moved into the light of the hallway. “We will. Dougal has already called me. Twice. Has he called you?”

 

It felt like a punch to the stomach. “What’s he calling for? Did ye speak to him? He hasna called me.”

 

“I didn’t speak to ‘im. Figured ye’d want to handle it.”

 

Jamie’s eyes caught on the bundle of Ian’s clothes in her arms. “Janet-- If ye want to-- date, or whatever it is yer doin’-- with Ian, I’ll keep my nose out of it. I’m sorry if I said anything to make ye doubt ‘im. He loves ye, ye know.”

 

Jenny’s face grew hot, shocked at how candidly he was speaking. “How d’ye ken that?”

 

Jamie laughed. “He told me. Back when we were kids. I’m not even sure he remembers he said it.” Finally registering how stiff Jenny had become, Jamie spoke up again. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said anythin’, I’m sorry.”

 

“Ye don’t know anything about Ian and me,” she snipped.

 

“I know more than ye think I do,” Jamie scoffed. “Even if ye don’t want to admit it.”

 

Jenny sighed, couldn’t seem to look her brother in the eyes. “Goodnight, Jamie. I’ll see ye in the morning.”

 

“Goodnight, Janet.”

 

Back in her room, she stepped lightly into the bathroom, setting the bundle of clothes on the counter. The room was humid and warm from the hot water, the mirror fogged. Ian’s discarded clothes lay in a pile on the floor near the toilet, balled up next to his prosthesis.

 

“Jen?” Ian opened the curtain to glance at her, just enough so his head poked around.  “Thought that was you.”

 

She could see his bare shoulder, how the steam from the water rose up around him, how the water beaded on his skin. His hair was dark and wet, shampoo still lathered in, giving him a misshapen and sudsy crown.

 

She smiled wide at him; he was adorable. “Just me. Your clothes are here.”

 

He considered her a moment, then his expression changed, his eyes roving over her body. “Would ye like to come in?” he asked.

 

Her stomach flipped, and she breathed deep, trying to steady herself. The air smelled of rose hips and soap and hot water. The humidity dewed on her arms and the insides of her knees.

 

“I, uh, I already showered,” she stammered, though her hands came to rest on her hips, where the waistline of her bottoms met her shirt.  

 

He laughed, gave her a knowing look. “So?” Then his face changed again, reflecting an anxious thought. “Ye don’t have to, of course, I just thought--”

 

Before she could second guess herself, she removed her clothes as fast as she could and stepped under the water.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a multi-chapter work inspired by the Outlander Rarepairs Challenge initiated by FaerieChild.


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